


Riding in Cars with Boys (and Everyone Else You Love)

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Series: Always Been a Pencil [9]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, M/M, Parent Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27714245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: After her mother dies, Myrcella has to reckon with her legacy.
Relationships: Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Myrcella Baratheon/Podrick Payne, Myrcella Baratheon/Trystane Martell, Tommen Baratheon/Theon Greyjoy, Yara Greyjoy/Margaery Tyrell
Series: Always Been a Pencil [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1337353
Comments: 45
Kudos: 91





	Riding in Cars with Boys (and Everyone Else You Love)

**Author's Note:**

> This one fought me. It's been 3/4 complete for months and since I've been on a writing roll I decided to put it to bed. 
> 
> A big thank you to everyone who has stuck with this series as it winds further and further away from how it began. You're all amazing.

When the phone lit up with Uncle Jaime's face Myrcella ignored it. She’d been working on this email for the better part of a half an hour. It was never fun to fire a client and it was often a tricky business, but Frey Agency had mismanaged their funds at every turn and seemed physically incapable of doing anything that she suggested. Sometimes she thought they might be doing the diametric opposite just so they could have a laugh at her. It just wasn’t worth it, even for the excessively high commission she charged them.

Her desktop chimed with an internal message from Donol in Marketing and she paused to fire back a response about the font type in the latest ad campaign when her phone started up again. She silenced it with annoyed huff. 

Uncle Jaime could, in theory, text. The stiffness in his hand and annoyance with the language as a whole meant that he just didn’t. And his calls were often not particularly important, just idle questions about family dinners or how her day was going. Most of the time, she actually appreciated the little check ins. Not today. 

She finished off the email and sent it off. 

“Miss Baratheon?” her admin assistant, Jeyne, put her head around the door. “Do you want me to put in a lunch order?” 

“Please,” she sighed. “Get something for yourself too. Just the usual from the deli for me.” 

The phone vibrated. This time it said ‘Brienne’. Myrcella’s stomach dropped. Brienne never ever called her while she was at work. And Brienne never forgot her schedule. She picked up the phone. 

“Hello?”

“Myrcella,” Brienne’s voice was tight. “I- Jaime needs to talk to you.” 

“Is everything okay?” But it was too late, the phone was passed on. 

“Mercy-mine,” he sounded rough and tired, “your mother...” 

She clutched too hard at the rectangle of plastic, “Did she get out? Did they let her out? You promised-” 

“No,” he cut her off, “she’s dead. About an hour ago. I wanted to make sure you found out before the press did. I’ve got to- I have to go identify the body which is ridiculous, they know who she is. But....it’s up to you what you want to do. Tommen is coming with me.” 

“I don’t want to see her,” the words were familiar. She’d said them to Uncle Jaime a hundred times over the last few years as he reminded her of birthdays and holidays. Tommen made that pilgrimage for them both. Myrcella sent safe things to her: impersonal cards, tasteful flowers, perfume and hair products. 

“Okay, sweetheart,” he said just like he always did without judgement. He never made her go. “The funeral will take a few days to plan.” 

“I can help with that,” her eyes were hot. Her throat hurt. “I can do that.” 

“Good. That’s good. She had some requests, I think. I’ll...” his voice hitched. There was a whispered something and then Brienne apparently had the phone back. 

“I’ll call you tonight,” Brienne said smoothly. “We’ll make a list together.” 

“Thanks,” she could do a list. She and Brienne were good at lists. “Maybe...I could come over. I can bring dinner?” 

“Good idea. They’ll be back by then.” 

Long after they hung up, she went right on clutching her phone. She should finish looking through those marketing materials. There was a quarterly staff meeting at the end of the week where they were meant to be unveiled. The phone vibrated in her hand. 

A text from Theon: _will be outside in twenty._

_busy_ She sent back, teeth gritted. 

_twenty minutes._

He could just wait in his stupid Jeep by the curb then. Cersei Lannister Baratheon had taken up enough of her time. The funeral alone would take up days and for what? No, she had things to do. She would start doing them at any moment. 

“Miss Baratheon?” Jeyne was standing in front of her desk. When has she gotten there? 

“Yes?” She cleared her throat when the word caught. 

“Are you all right? I’ve got your lunch order.” 

“But you just-” she glanced at the clock. She’d been just sitting there for over a half an hour. “I need to leave early today. Family emergency.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry! Is everything all right?” 

“No,” she summoned a professional smile. “I’ll call you when I have an idea of how the week will fall out. Can you give my apologies to anyone I had on the schedule through Friday?” 

“Of course,” Jeyne picked up Myrcella’s coat and handed it to her, concern clear in her face. “Is there anything else I can do?” 

“If reporters call, you tell them there’s no statement at this time. I’ll email you once I have something worked out.”

“Statement?” Jeyne followed her as she picked up her purse and headed for the elevators. 

“I’ll send it along soon,” she said vaguely and got in, hitting the button for the ground floor. 

Theon was sitting in his jeep, idling in the fire lane. 

“You’re not supposed to park here,” she snapped at him as she launched herself up in her four inch heels into the passenger seat. 

“It’s for an emergency,” he shrugged. “This is an emergency.” 

“It’s not,” she buckled her seatbelt. The Jeep was littered with cat hair and there was an indistinguishable heap of clothing in the backseat. 

“Uh huh,” he pulled out of the spot into the road. 

He didn’t say anything. She blew upwards, stray blond hair dancing out her eyes. 

“Sorry,” she said after another beat of silence. 

“For what?”

“Snapping,” she would’ve apologized to anyone for it. Theon was just a worse case scenario. Cuts always went a little deeper on him. 

“Fuck me sideways, Cella. Your mother just died. Snap all you want,” his eyes were tight, but his hands were steady on the wheel.

Her mother was dead. 

_Mother sat at her vanity, carefully dusting her cheeks the lightest of pinks. Myrcella perched on the trunk at the end of her parents’ bed, not hitting it with her heels because she’d get scolded._

_“Do you want some too?” her mother smiled at her, reflecting in the mirror._

_“Can I?”_

_Her mother waved the brush at her and Myrcella wiggled off the trunk. She held her face up and closed her eyes, the sweet smelling powder and the tickle of the brush making her smile._

_“There, perfection,” her mother dusted her nose too to make her laugh. “When you have beauty like yours, you don’t need too much makeup. Just a breath.”_

_“Thank you,” she said dutifully. Compliments should be accepted graciously._

_“Damnit, Cersei!” the bedroom door opened with a crack, her father arriving in thunder. “What’s taking so long!”_

_“The party doesn’t start for an hour, dear,” her mother’s smile went hard and plastic like the one on Myrcella’s favorite doll._

_“It’d take more then an hour to fix that mug of yours,” her father snorted. He stared at her mother’s vanity. “No potion there that’ll make you ten years younger.”_

_“No, I suppose not,” Mother’s eyes went dark and Myrcella took a step back. She suddenly wanted to be very small. “But I do want to look my best for your associates, dear.”_

_“Too late for that,” her father muttered, “they’ve already heard what kind of woman you are, you miserable sl-”_

_“Myrcella,” her mother cut in, shearing her father’s words in two. “Why don’t you pour your father a glass of wine? From the decanter, not the bottle, darling.”_

_Myrcella was happy for the retreat. The wine was kept on a special table by the great window in a sitting area in her mother’s parlor. At eight, she had just gained the privilege of occasionally pouring a glass if she was very careful. The decanter was crystal and heavy. She was very careful though and was proud not to spill any. It did smell funny, she noticed. Something heavy, like marzipan. She carried it back into her mother’s bedroom._

_Her mother was putting on foundation again, which was weird since she’d already done it once, but her cheek was pink. Her father was laughing, his big booming laugh that scared her._

_“Here you go,” she offered him up the glass._

_“There’s my girl,” he said vaguely and drank the glass down._

_“I think it’s time for bed, Myrcella,” her mother said crisply, her eyes firmly on the mirror now._

_“Yes, Mother.”_

_She left the room without further acknowledgement, listening to the rise and fall of angry voices. Her room was on the other side of the house and by the time she got there, she could hear nothing at all._

_In the morning, her nanny would wake her up with a shaking voice and an unfamiliar black dress in her hands._

_It had been her first funeral, holding Tommen close to her side while Joffery made jokes about pissing into the grave under his breath.  
_

Theon pulled up to Uncle Jaime and Brienne’s house. Her second childhood home. 

“Can I stay with you guys tonight?” she asked. Was that her voice? This broken childlike thing. “I just-” 

“Guest room is yours,” Theon unbuckled himself, “I was going to ask if you didn’t. Tom’ll want you.” 

“He’s going to go see her body,” she remembered, “why would he do that? What’s the point?” 

“I asked that too,” Theon said quietly, his hand on the door, “and he told me that he was going to say goodbye the way he wanted to. Not the way she would’ve told him to do it.” 

“Oh,” she finally moved to take off her own seatbelt. 

“I told him it was kind of late for a teenage rebellion,” Theon turned to her. “I’m trying not to fuck up twice in a day. So...you want a hug or something?” 

“No,” she snorted, “Did you really say that?” 

“Nah, just thought it really hard. I have actually started to get the hang of this husband thing,” he still said ‘husband’ like the word was a little magic. It had only been a year. She hoped he never stopped. Her brother deserved to feel magical sometimes. “But he did ask me to get you. I’m getting why he did.” 

“Why?” she pushed open her door. “I’m fine.” 

“Okay,” he said mildly and got out after her. “Do you want a tissue before we go in?” 

“I don’t-” Actually it did feel like she had to blow her nose. When she lifted her hand to her face, she found her cheeks were wet. She’d been crying. The whole way here? For a minute? Theon grabbed a tissue from a box in the car and handed it to her. 

After an awkward moment, he put his hand on her shoulder and she did just lean into him. Let him keep it there as they walked through the front door. 

Brienne was in the kitchen, sitting at the table. She had a book in front of her, but it was closed. The house was quiet. When she registered their arrival, she got up and swept her hands together like she was brushing off invisible dust. Brienne always did that before she had to do something difficult. 

“Do you want some tea?” she offered and Myrcella nodded, sinking into a kitchen chair. “Peppermint or licorice?” 

“Licorice,” they kept in the house just for her. No one else drank it. Brienne brewed it and while the water boiled, she rested a hand on Myrcella’s shoulder. 

It helped. It grounded her. 

“Tom just texted,” Theon sat across from her. “They’re coming back now. They’ll release the body by tomorrow and the funeral director will go get it.” 

Like it was a package. Signed, sealed and delivered. Myrcella imagined her mother sitting inside a cartoon box covered in shipment stickers. Mailed to somewhere far away like the punchline of a joke. 

Brienne set a thick handled mug in front of Myrcella, still too hot to drink. There was a chip in the rim. Tom had put it there tossing a plate too carelessly into the sink when they were young. It had been one of Brienne’s favorites and to their surprise she’d gone right on drinking out of it. 

_”It’s a mug. It’s meant to hold hot liquid,” she’d explained, “and it still does it’s job. Just because something isn’t perfect doesn’t mean it can’t be useful or good.”_

Myrcella ran a thumb over the chip, feeling the way the groove had softened over time with many trips through the dishwasher. 

The front door opened and closed. Theon was still sitting across from her, having produced a comic from who knew where, reading it with apparent interest. Brienne was gone. 

The tea and the mug were cold. 

“Bri?” Uncle Jaime called out before his foot had even touched the threshold. That was familiar too, that rapid call and her response ‘Yeah?’ that seemed to be all that was needed. “ We’re back.” 

Usually Brienne gave him a hard time about it. Pointing out that she could hear him stampeding around or that she’d been hoping for a few more minutes of peace and quiet. Today she just hugged him and Uncle Jaime hugged her back. 

He looked old as he embraced his wife. The light was unforgiving in the mid-afternoon blaze of summer. It showed all his wrinkles, the way his stubble was mostly grey, but it was more than that. There was a softness to him, a vulnerability that made it so much worse. 

Tommen slipped by them, headed for the kitchen. Myrcella thought she should get up. She should hug her brother and reassure him. That was her job. 

“Hey,” Theon pushed back a little from the table and Tommen sat in his lap, folded into his embrace. Tom’s eyes were red rimmed and his mouth drawn tight. 

“Hey,” Tom swallowed hard, “today sucks, babe.” 

“Yeah, it does,” Theon rubbed his back. “And tomorrow will suck and the day after.” 

“When does it stop sucking?” 

“I dunno,” the sigh was tired, from a deep place, “I still think about my mom all the time and it’s been...shit, seventeen years. Just hurts less, more like a scar then a wound.” 

It’s different for you and your nice dead mother who you can just remember as someone who loved you, Myrcella wanted to say. Didn’t because it wasn’t polite or nice. Couldn’t because her mouth wasn’t working right. Wouldn’t because Theon didn’t deserve that. 

She should order dinner, she started to stand up. If she let Uncle Jaime do it, he’d get something someone was allergic too. It was her job to remember that. To make sure everyone had something to eat. 

“...and a side salad,” Brienne was saying into her cell. She was on the couch now, Uncle Jaime’s head in her lap. She was casually playing with his hair. 

Right. Brienne was home. Brienne could order. 

But she was already on her feet, so she walked to the back door, pushing it open and stepping onto the patio. There were sun baked chairs there, but she walked past them. Stumbled when she hit rocks. 

There were flip flops besides one of the chairs, probably Uncle Jaime’s. Far too big for her feet, but she took off her heels and slid them on anyway. She walked out across the beach and onto the pier. 

The ocean crashed against the pillars, salt water licking up into the air. There were boats in the distance, blurry smears on the horizon. She’d always lived near the water, but it wasn’t until they came here that she’d spent any real time in it. Sometimes she was still afraid of those roiling waves and how they could pull you under. 

“Mercy-mine,” Uncle Jaime’s voice pierced through her reverie. 

A cardigan went around her shoulders. It was probably Brienne’s, a sensible grey and swamping Myrcella’s torso in worn fabric. The air had gotten chilly as the sun started sinking. 

“Dad,” she didn’t look up at him, just out over the water, “how are you holding up?” 

“Shitty,” he laughed mirthlessly, “I always thought I wouldn’t have to- well. Doesn’t matter now.” 

“Did she kill herself?” the question had hung in the air since the phone call. 

“Depends upon your definition,” he reached out and took her hand. His skin was cool and dry. She clung to it, “all the drinking didn’t do her body any favors. Even after she went away, she’d find stashes sometimes. Bribe people. It was a blood clot, but it could’ve been anything. ” 

“I should’ve gone to see her,” she wasn’t even sure she meant it. It just sounded like something she should say. 

“What for?” he squeezed her hand lightly. “You protected yourself. Wish I’d been smart enough at your age to know those kinds of boundaries.” 

“She was my mother.” 

“Yes,” he blew out a long stream of air, “we took you out to ice cream after your grandfather’s funeral. Do you remember?” 

“A little.” 

“I didn’t feel anything. All those years kissing ass to the old man, fighting for his approval, and when he died...all I felt was relief,” he kissed the top of her head. It had been a long time since he’d had to lean over to do that. They were almost exactly the same height. “You feel however you need to feel about it.” 

“I don’t feel anything.”

She ate dinner mechanically, not taking in any conversation around her. When the food was gone, she and Brienne went into the living room, a laptop open on the coffee table. 

“She wanted traditional,” Brienne said quietly. “There’s a space for her in the Lannister mausoleum. Renly offered, since she technically died as a Baratheon, but-” 

“She’d want to be buried a Lannister,” Uncle Jaime nodded. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand, but he wasn’t drinking it. The giant ice cube slowly melted, amber turning clearer and clearer. 

“Of course. So then there’s flowers, music. If we want to let people know. Not the public, obviously.” 

“She didn’t have anyone left, but us.” 

“Funerals aren’t for the dead,” Brienne started typing, her fingers careful on the keys. “And traditional means a Standing of Families. We’ll need to scrape up some people from that. Renly will do it, obviously..... The Starks will come if we ask them too.” 

“Mom would resurrect herself just to yell about that,” And for the first time since this morning, she wanted to reach out. She wanted to call Sansa, desperately. She tabled the thought for the moment. “But yeah, let’s let them know at least.” 

“Yara will come,” she hadn’t realized Theon had moved to one of the living room chairs. “The Greyjoys will stand with you.” 

Mother would’ve hated that too. A forgotten family not even from the proper North. But Mycella liked her sister-in-law even if Yara didn’t seem to like her back much. She respected the strong oak of her will. 

“That’d be good, thanks,” she glanced at Brienne, “do you think Uncle Tyrion will come?” 

“Yes,” she said with a firmness that suggested she’d see to it whether he liked it or not. “Loras will do the Tyrells, he’s good about traditional things. That might be enough.” 

“What about flowers?” 

“Orchids,” Uncle Jaime called from the kitchen, “she liked orchids.” 

Myrcella hadn’t known that. 

They all came up blank for music. She hadn’t listened to any that Myrcella could remember and Uncle Jaime just shrugged, “She always said she liked whatever I had on the radio.” Which no one commented on. 

“It’s outside anyway,” Tommen shrugged, “music would just get lost. Let’s skip it.” 

“The eulogy,” Brienne said at last. 

“Oh,” Uncle Jaime pressed his hand to his mouth as if already trying to stop what might emerge. Tommen shifted uncomfortably on the couch. 

“I’ll do it,” Myrcella sighed. “Just...I’ll do it.” 

“You don’t have to-” Uncle Jaime started to protest. 

“It’s something. Something I can do,” she straightened her back. “I’ll do it.” 

They scattered not long after that. Tommen and Theon drove her back to their house and let her loose in the guest room. Before Theon, she had lived in that room half the time whenever her apartment was too quiet or Tommen needed her. But she’d felt strange about invading a space that was no longer just her brother’s or even just Theon’s. Something about their coupledom took up more space. 

She sat down on the end of the bed, opened her work email. There was a message from the Donel saying he was sorry to hear about her loss.The news must’ve broken over the old family gossip chain if not the news. And then there were two statements attached, one on behalf of the company, one with her personal header. They were similar, just stating there had been a death in the family and she would be occupied during the mourning period with alternate contacts for their clients. And that she wasn’t giving interviews.

Her people had pulled them together without her. Given her the gift of space. She approved them without further correction. 

“You should call Trystane,” Tommen spoke from the doorway. 

“Asshole!” she threw a pillow at him, “you startled me.” 

He watched it land a foot short of him without amusement, “I’m not kidding, Mercy. If he finds out from someone else...he’ll probably still be super understanding about it, but you know he’d rather hear it from you.” 

“We’re not on right now,” she looked away. “I don’t want to do that to him.” 

“He’s your friend even when he’s not dating you,” Tommen bent over, scoping up the pillow and coming to sit next to her on the bed. “It’ll be good for you to have someone there.” 

“Sansa will be there,” she said with surety. Their friendship had never faltered. They took turns going to each other for brunch once a month and talked on the phone all the time. 

“I know,” he elbowed her, “but who’s shoulder would you prefer to cry on?” 

“I’m not crying another tear for her,” she meant to sound harsh, but it came out so brittle. 

“Okay,” Tommen hooked his chin over his shoulder, a habit from too long ago to recall. 

“The last time we talked wasn’t so good,” she could still hear the strain in his voice. 

Because the problem was so simple, but so impossible. Dorne and King’s Landing were far apart. Neither of them wanted to give up their home. So how could they be together? She had a company built from the ground up, her family, her friends. He had a house, a life there, and a deep, well-earned, distrust of her city. 

_“Your problem is you never compromise,” he’d been angry, cold about it in his rage._

_“That’s pretty rich coming from you! You always say you’ll do anything for me, but when push comes to shove, you won’t budge an inch!”_

It’s a fight they’ve had before, but there was something so final about the door slamming as she left. The way he hadn’t texted to make sure she got home safe after. 

The radio silence on both their sides since. 

“I know,” Tom sighed in her ear. His breath smelled like his weird cinnamon toothpaste. “I still think he’d want to know.” 

She shook her head, just once and he dropped it. Hugged her good night and padded down the hall. She could hear Theon’s voice rising and falling, a question. Tommen’s muffled reply. 

Were they talking about her? 

She’d spent so many years talking about Tommen in a hush with Uncle Jaime, with Brienne. Making sure he had what he needed, workshopping his life to keep him safe and comfortable. But he owned his own house. He had his own business to run, elaborate hobbies and a person that loved him enough to play nice with his grumpy, bossy sister. 

He was a grown up and now maybe he spent time workshopping her life. 

The thought turned her stomach. She changed into pajamas that she left in one of the drawers there, turning off the lights and sinking under the blankets. The darkness closed in on her. She clutched at her phone. 

She picked it up and hit the familiar number. 

“Myrcella,” Sansa always sounded soft on the phone. When Myrcella had first met her, her accent had seemed bizarre, nasal and ugly. Now, it almost made her weep, the way Sansa’s mouth held her name like it was precious. “I’m so sorry, I just heard a bit ago.” 

“Please don’t be sorry,” she curled up under the covers, blocking out everything but her friend’s voice. “You of all people. She was a heinous bitch and her death doesn’t take anything out of the world. I shouldn’t’ve-’” 

“I’m so glad you called,” Sansa rushed to fill in the hanging sentiment. “I thought you wouldn’t because you wanted to protect me or something ridiculous. I hated her, Myrcella, but I love you. And losing a parent hurts.” 

“She wasn’t even good at it,” she pressed her burning eyes shut. “Being a mother.” 

“I know,” the ‘o’ was so Northern still, drawn out and considered. “But she was yours anyway. And it hurts.” 

Someone else had to say it for her, apparently. As soon as Sansa had informed her that she was in pain, Myrcella started to cry again, “It does, and I don’t know why.” 

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” there was the soft shutting of the door, the rising sound of insects. She could picture Sansa stepping out onto the porch. The meadow had been in full flower when she’d visited two weeks ago, probably still was. “Grief doesn’t know reason.” 

“I hate her,” her sob cracked and she was weeping in earnest now, great wracking sobs. “And I hate that I hate her.” 

“I know,” Sansa said softly, “I know.” 

_Sansa slid into the towncar, her face serene. But Myrcella could see the bulky envelope with it’s corner sticking out the edge of her bag. She could see that her friend’s hands were shaking. She waited. She watched. And when Sansa slipped out of her room that night holding a tiny black camera, she acted._

_“Oh! Where did you come from?” Sansa laughed nervously when Myrcella stepped towards her._

_“Give it to me to do,” she’d said with the kind of intense certainty only a tween on a mission could manage._

_“Do what?”_

_“If someone walks in on me doing something weird, I can make excuses,” she said carefully. “If you do it....”_

_The threat of potential pain hung thick in the air. Since Sansa had come, Joffrey no longer came up with fun ways to torture his sister without leaving marks, but she remembered and she did not forgive._

_“It’s not fair to you,” Sansa closed her hand around the camera, so small that her delicate fingers could obscure it from view._

_Maybe not. But Sansa was so pretty and so kind and so soft, like a Disney princess with her long red hair. It wasn’t fair that someone like her had been sucked into the slow moving horror movie of Casterly Rock. And for once, Myrcella could do something about it._

_“I can get one into Grandpa’s office, no way you can make up a reason for being there. And the sitting room, if you get caught in there Mother will have a fit,” she held out her hand. “Please, Sansa.”_

_Reluctantly, the little machines dropped into her palm. Whispered instructions in the dark._

_When the police came for Joffery, Myrcella held Tommen’s hand and her face was a mask that hid her dark joy as her mother’s wails nearly drowned out the sirens._

Sansa stayed on the phone with her until her sobs were over and she’d managed to get up and splash water on her face. They signed off with Sansa promising to be there in two days for the funeral and available if she needed to call again whenever. 

After that it seemed anticlimactic to open up her old texts. She had to scroll far to reach their last exchange. Their last messages to each other had been sweet. He’d had a meeting while she was visiting, then stopped in the market to pick up things for dinner. They’d gone back and forth about the merits of different fruits. 

_on my way back <3 _ had been his last message to her. 

Their fight had been two days later. 

There was something so incisively wrong about undercutting that with bitter news, but Tom was right to some extent. He would find out tomorrow watching the news like he often did with his breakfast. If he found out that way it would say something final about them. 

_my mother died._

She tried a few times to write something better, something more, but that was all that came to her. It was the facts as they stood. She sent the message and turned her phone on silent.  
When she woke up, the house was so quiet that for a moment, she thought maybe she had gotten up too early that maybe everyone else was asleep, but then she saw the sun slanting in bright from the window. 

She sat up, grabbed her phone watching it boot back up blearily. It was nearly noon. She hadn’t slept that late since she was a teenager. She staggered into the shower, taking the time to carefully wash and untangle her hair. There would be mourning braids for the funeral and it was easier with hair that was a day or two out from clean. 

There’d be no work today, but people might start arriving. She dressed neatly, made herself a sensible breakfast in the quiet kitchen. Lala circled her, headbutting her shins and she reached down to scratch under her chin. Then with a thick sigh, she picked up her phone to check her messages. 

A text from Tommen explained that they were at the shelter for a bit, getting things ready for a few days absence. Brienne asked if she’d had time to look at photos that she’d shared that they only needed two for display by the casket. There was a forwarded email from Sansa with her train information and an assurance that Robb would pick her up from the station as he got into town. There were no work emails except one from Jeyne explaining she’d check her messages, logging the important ones, answering the ones she could until she got back. 

That was it. She poured herself a second cup of coffee and went out onto the patio to watch the waves. The pictures would be small on her phone, but she figured they were shots she was familiar enough with that it wouldn’t matter. 

The first one was a wedding picture, solo on the steps of Casterly Rock. Her mother in white and her eyes piercing through time. Her bouquet was washed out in the morning sunshine, but even then Myrcella could tell there were no orchids. Was it really her favorite flower? Or had she not been allowed to choose or thought it said the wrong thing no matter her preference?

Her eyes fell to her mother’s face. 

It was Myrcella’s face. One of the many issues of being the child of obscene inbreeding (including a heart defect that she spent a lot of time not thinking about between doctor’s visits) was that there was no escaping that genetic fate. Even now, people commented how much she looked like Uncle Jaime, even though time had weathered away some of his sharpest angles. She always smiled politely, agreed. But she knew the truth. From the jawline to the nose to the color of her hair, she was Cersei’s perfect clone. Or had been once. 

The last time Myrcella saw her, her mother’s cheeks had been gaunt, eyes wild. They’d had to shave her head after an altercation with another patient. It had made her look sick though by all accounts, her health had been fine then. 

_“I see you decided you could spare a moment,” her mother hadn’t even looked at her, lips pursed. “Making time for that Martell boy instead?”_

_“It’s your birthday,” Myrcella had said weakly. “Of course I came.”_

_“Of course,” the mocking was cold, clinical. “Because Mother is a sad obligation. The martyr role you get to play twice a year.”_

_“I brought you the things you asked for,” she set down the package. Her mother hadn’t even taken a seat yet, posed by the window that got the best light._

_“Thank you,” she said dryly. “And do I get to know something about your life?”_

_“My classes are going well,” she’d just started her sophomore year. “I declared my major.”_

_“Business?” her mother glanced up and away at her. “You’ve got a good head for numbers.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“I got into college, you know,” and she hadn’t known. Myrcella blinked. “I was going to be a business major too.”_

_“What happened?”_

_“My father happened,” her mother didn’t sound bitter or resigned. Just a fact. “There were more important places for me to put my energy. What would’ve I done anyway? Stayed in a dorm room and made friends? Forgotten where I came from?”_

_“I didn’t forget,” the delicate threads of sympathy were so easy to brush away. “I know who I am.”_

_“Do you?” finally her mother turned to look at her full on and no matter what they said, Myrcella never saw anything the least bit impulsive or off kilter in her mother. Her eyes were the same steady steel blue as always._

_“I’ve known for a long time,” she said carefully, returning that gaze. “I know what you did. You and Uncle Jaime.”_

_The lip curled in disgust, the same disapproval Myrcella used to receive if she showed up to the dinner table with dirt under her nails._

_“Do you think that makes you better than me? That you spreading your legs is more ethical? We all do what we need to do and you’re a liar if you think you’re any different from me,” she turned away again. “The world is ugly enough, don’t make me look at your accusing face another second.”_

_And Myrcella hadn’t. They never spoke face to face again._

The Cersei in the picture wasn’t cold or cruel. She looked almost scared. On her wedding day, Cersei was six years younger than Myrcella was now. She’d probably already been pregnant with Joffery, but there was no hint in the picture. No suggestion of the malignance she was nurturing. 

Myrcella moved to the next photo, and the next. Selected benign lonely shots in pretty dresses posed in front of featureless backgrounds. There were pictures of them together. She and Tommen and Joffery dressed up in formal clothes, arrayed around her like perfectly placed gemstones in a necklace. 

There was even one of Myrcella at eight or nine, holding her mother’s hand while they both tossed rose petals into the air for some forgotten ceremony. Someone else’s wedding maybe. 

Had she been happy? Myrcella studied the child’s face, looking for a hint. Maybe. She was smiling at least, the petals fluttering artistically around her. Her mother was smiling too, eyes crinkling up in genuine amusement instead of her picture perfect cheshire grin. 

It was all inscrutable now. Myrcella closed the photos, sent an email to Brienne and leaned back in the chair. The front door opened and closed, 

“Theon?” A woman’s voice rang through the living room and for a horrible moment, Myrcella though it was some kind of break in until good sense kicked in. 

“They’re not back from work yet!” She called through, getting up and heading back into the kitchen. 

It was Yara, already taking possession of the couch. Instead of her usual layers, she was stripped down to cut off denim shorts and a tank top so wide at the armpits that her neon green sports bra was on display. Myrcella hovered uncertainty in the doorway, 

“Get you something to drink?” 

“Nothing they’ve got in the cabinets,” Yara stretched out.

“You got here quick,” she moved into the room self-consciously. 

“I was at Highgarden,” a quick shrug. 

She wanted to ask why she was here then. What function did she have in this temporarily stalled out machine until the funeral?

“Thanks for coming,” she said instead. 

“Yeah well, my brother asked me,” it came out irritable like she was annoyed that she had the power to be compelled by anyone. “Sorry about your mother.” 

“Don’t be,” Myrcella said quickly, then winced. 

Yara gave her an accessing look, “There’s a bar within walking distance of this place, right?” 

Which was how Myrcella found herself in a nearly empty bar before noon with her sister-in-law setting down a second shot of straight vodka that smelled like paint thinner in front of her. They sat across from each other in a booth, the vinyl loud and split beneath them. 

“My father was a piece of shit,” Yara tossed back her shot and Myrcella copied her, trying not to choke. “He gave Theon away like a bartering chip, treated our mother like a maid, and the only reason he stopped beating me was that I got strong enough to hit back.” 

“I-”

“Don’t sympathize with me. It’s gross. The point is, when he died, I thought I’d throw a fucking party. Finally. Freedom, right?” Yara held her hand up to the bartender to signal for two more. “But they still go on living rent-free in your head if you let them. A voice that won’t shut up.” 

“Stand up straight,” Myrcella said quietly, her mother’s tone so easy still to mimic, “People are looking at you. Lift up your chin. Don’t let them know what you’re thinking. Speak softer. Stop sulking, Myrcella, you’ll get wrinkles.” 

Yara pointed a finger at her, cocked it like a gun and made an explosive sound with her lips. “Straight to the heart.” 

“So how do you get it to stop?” 

“Fuck if I know, sis,” Yara snorted and Myrcella blinked. Yara had never called her that before, she’d definitely remember. “Shitty Dead Parent Club doesn’t have answers, just a fuckload of trauma and booze.” 

The shots arrived and Myrcella picked hers up, held it up to Yara, “Guess this one’s to the Shitty Dead Parent Club then.” 

Yara solemnly clinked glasses with her and they drank. 

By the time Tommen and Theon got home, it was to the sight of their sisters plastered on the deck chairs on the patio with Yara trying to teach Myrcella the lyrics to a dirty sea shanty. Except she kept forgetting the words and her voice kept cracking on the high notes with laughter. 

“What happened here?” Tom stopped in the doorway, Theon practically tripping over him. 

“Shitty Dead Parents Club,” Myrcella said solemnly to him while she tried not to slide off the chair because Yara kept tugging at her pant leg every time she stopped paying attention. Yara was very strong.

“Cool,” Theon laughed low, kissing Tommen on the cheek. “Gonna go hit the liquor store then.” 

It was the longest drinking session that Myrcella had ever had. Their words slip and slide all over each other for hours. Pizza showed up at some point, and someone kept giving her glasses of water between drinks. 

Around midnight, she crawled into bed and made a distressed noise when the lump of blankets groaned. 

“Sorry, what?” she was still addled, her head spinning. 

“We’re sharing,” Yara grumbled. “Suck it up, blondie. I’m not doing the couch.” 

“Okay,” she felt weird, but too tired to argue, sliding between blankets. She closed her eyes, but sleep evaded her. There was the flash of a screen next to her, a soft ping of a sent text. “How do you do it?” 

“Do what?” Yara grumbled. 

“Just...make the long distance thing work. You guys seem happy.” 

Yara huffed, “Is this like a sleepover thing now?” 

“Yes?” 

“Great,” the mattress heaved as Yara turned over, a waft of whisky breath reaching across the bed. Her eyes caught the faint moonlight, glittering in the dark. “Fine. Yeah. We’re happy.” 

“I can’t make it work,” Myrcella was mortified with herself distantly. This was the moment, not the person. But she couldn’t stop herself. “It’s always good for awhile, but I want to live with him. I want a home with him, but I can’t...I can’t just leave here and he won’t leave there so we’re right back where we started.” 

“That sucks,” Yara sighed, “I don’t have any advice. We’re different.” 

“Why?” And it sounded whiney even to her and she winced. “Sorry.” 

“Ugh, you and your brother. You apolgoize for fucking everything,” she groaned. “Look...what the fuck, I’m drunk anyway... Everyone that was supposed to take care of me died or checked out by the time I was twelve. I lived like a feral animal until Theon came home.” 

‘Theon came home’ was a short sentence doing a lot of heavy lifting, Myrcella knew. 

“That sucks,” Myrcella repeated to her and Yara huffed a laugh. 

“It was fine. I trust myself which is more than most people I know. But I’m never going to feel okay with someone that wants to lock me up in a house and domesticate me,” she shifted again, and Myrcella could almost imagine her as some ancient sea creature, writhing in a net, breaking apart the ship of anyone that dared to try to catch her. “Margie doesn’t try. Doesn’t want to. She just wants some of my time when I can spare it.” 

“She was my hero when I was growing up,” she blurted and why couldn’t she just stop talking? Shouldn’t have had that last shot before bed. “I thought she was amazing.” 

“She is amazing,” Yara sounded almost annoyed about it. “Just all the time. Without even trying.” 

“Her hair just looks like that all the time, doesn’t it?” she sighed. “I used to think if I woke up early enough, I’d catch her doing it, but it’s just...like that.” 

“It’s fucking infurating,” another snort of laughter. “Her lips are just that pink and her eyes are just that big. Goddamn porcelain doll.” 

The light of the phone flashed again, Yara typing furiously. 

“What are you writing?” 

“That I’m mad at her for being hot.” 

They lay in silence for a minute. The phone pinged. Yara glanced at it then stuck it on the side table, 

“She told me to go the fuck to sleep.” 

“Are you going to listen to that?” 

“Only because I was going to do it anyway,” she put her back to Myrcella again. Right. Sleep. “And you know what?” 

“What?” she asked bewildered. 

“Fucking nothing wrong with wanting a home with someone. You do you and leave anyone that doesn’t like it to rot in their fancy desert.” 

She thought she probably cried after that, but if she did it wasn’t for long. Sleep swallowed her up. 

The hangover the next morning found her in fingers of sunlight poking her in the eye. 

“Leave me to die,” she yelled at the door when someone knocked. 

“No can do, ‘Cella,” Tommen was laughing at her then made a pitiful noise. “C’mon and be miserable with me. Damn Greyjoys are already going for a swim with their iron livers.” 

She huddled in the scant shade of the patio with him, bent over matching coffee mugs. Theon and Yara were in fact in the sea. They were both slicing through the water, Yara occasionally pulling ahead then stopping to heckle him. 

“I never asked you what she was like the last few years,” Myrcella watched Yara dive under a wave, emerging out the other side. 

“I would’ve told you if it was important,” Tom sighed. “She was just...Mother. She’d hug me and make a big fuss over me sometimes, other times she’d barely talk to me or she’d insult me. I never told her about Theon.” 

“What, really?” She didn’t look at him, almost afraid at what would be on his face. “I mean you didn’t have to but didn’t she notice the ring?” 

“I said I didn’t tell her, not that she didn’t know,” he said wryly. “She found things out somehow. Brienne, maybe. She still wrote her right to the end.” 

“Saint Brienne,” she half-whispered, her father’s old teasing nickname something that hung in the air around them. 

“Don’t do that,” Tom groaned. “She was just doing what she thought was right and she probably wouldn’t’ve if I asked her not to. And Mother never said anything about it. Except that my ring was ‘crude’ I think.” 

“It’s a good ring,” she said automatically. Even though, when he’d first started wearing it, she had thought it did look like that. Too chunky and harsh on his willowy fingers. But like Theon, it had grown on her. It looked right now, and something more delicate would seem wrong.

“Yeah, I know that,” he said gently. “I’m not the one who gets her words in my head, ‘Cella. It was always safer for me to go.’ 

It was a gut punch. 

In the water, Yara yelled something and Theon yelled back laughing. They were barely spots in the water, seals slipping around in blue-black waves. 

He didn’t apologize. Myrcella didn’t want him to. 

“I have to go back to my apartment,” she said into the silence as the Greyjoys finally emerged from the water. 

“Why?” Theon dripped onto the stone, apparently content to dry in the sun. Yara reached for a towel, rubbing it roughly through her hair and Myrcella schooled her expression so she didn’t wince. Towel drying was awful for your hair, she almost said. 

Fuck, Tom was right. She was still half a puppet sometimes. Spouting words seeded so deep in her that she’d probably be weeding them out for the rest of her life.

“Gotta feed the boys,” she summoned up something that resembled cheerful. 

“Don’t tell me they’ve got you ass deep in pussy too?” Yara asked, then had a snicker at her own terrible joke while Theon threw his unused towel at her head.

“No, ‘Cella is the snake lady,” he explained. “She gets the first refusal of any we get in.” 

“Which you can stop any time,” she got to her feet. “Four is more than enough.” 

“I can drive you,” Tom watched her, squinting in pain into the sunny morning. 

“I’m headed back to Highgarden,” Yara said quickly. “And I wanna see the snakes.” 

“Okay,” Myrcella tried not to look too grateful. She couldn’t bear to be alone with him right now. Too raw and too much truth. 

“Hope you like riding in the bitch seat,” Theon said merrily. 

“What?” 

Riding behind Yara on a motorcycle was actually pretty great. The helmet was a matte deep purple that smelled like basil leaves, which she guessed meant it was usually Aunt Margie’s. The wind whipped past them and Yara clearly knew what she was doing. Her heart thudded in her ears, but it felt good. Cleansing. 

They parked next to her car, the second space dedicated for her apartment that she never could reconcile letting go of even though it cost her money every month. Yara, true to her word, came up to the apartment. 

“Wow, this place is...” Yara turned around slowly. “Kind of low key?” 

“What’d you expect?” she set her keys down in the little bowl by the door that Tommen had made when he was thirteen. He’d given it to her for the holidays with a line between his eyebrows like she’d reject it. Like it wasn’t enough. 

Homemade gifts were tacky. 

Myrcella would never ever throw it away. 

“Something a little more...” Yara waved a hand around. “Decorated?” 

She tried to see her apartment with fresh eyes. It wasn’t very big. She’d bought it before she’d started her own company, when she was only twenty-five. There was money, of course. She could’ve gotten something sprawling, but this had seemed like so much already at the time. The galley kitchen she’d re-done in light woods and a blue tinted countertop to make it look a little bigger. It was split from the living room by an island with two barstools pulled up to it. 

The living room had a giant overstuffed couch that Brienne had given to her when she bought the place. It had been in the house for years, but was finally replaced with one that had a pullout bed for visitors. Years of hard use had stained it, so Myrcella had bought a pretty floral slipcover and called it good. She usually ate there with her feet up on the wood slab coffee table, watching tv and sometimes just falling asleep there. The walls were mostly bare, the carpet the same bland neutral they’d been when she’d move in. 

But there were the tanks which was where Yara gravitated. They were on shelves that Myrcella had installed herself, proudly with the power tools she’d borrowed from a friend. The tanks were large, heavy things. Expensive heat lamps were arranged as artfully as she could make them. 

“Tell me about them, ” Yara half-demanded. 

“This is Gem,” she started because she didn’t need a lot of encouragement. She pointed to the top right tank where the small sleepy orange body was curled around a rock. “He’s a corn snake and super lazy. But he’s an old man now, I got him when I first bought the apartment and he was already getting on a bit. 

“This is Thistle,” she smiled as the white and black body slithered towards her, tongue flicking, “he’s a milk snake. Really gentle. Total escape artist though.” 

“What do you do if he gets out?” Yara frowned. 

“Panic. But he never goes too far. The rest of the apartment isn’t really warm enough, so I just come home and he’s sleeping on top of someone else’s tank like an asshole,” she pointed diagonal to it, “That’s his brother Bert. They hate each other. They came in together so Tommen thought it’d be cute to keep them together, but there’s a grudge.” 

“I can sympathize with that,” Yara muttered. 

“Same,” Myrcella allowed and put her hand into the last tank, letting the long rope of scaly joy wrap around him. “And this is Flea. The world’s cuddliest ball python.” 

“You called your fuck off huge snake Flea?” 

“He’s a big coward,” she let him settle into his usual coils around her arm. “A little bug got into his tank once and he balled up until I got it out. They’re all rescues so who knows what happened to them?”

“Can I touch him?” 

“Sure, just go slow.” 

Yara was careful and Flea didn’t move as she stroked him, just stared at her warily. 

“How’d you wind up liking them?” 

“Tommen got me a snake when I was a kid,” she shrugged. “I loved that poor thing every day of her little life.” 

“Wild,” Yara said, seemingly half to herself. 

She left not long after, leaving Myrcella to shower in her own bathroom and change into something fresh. After that, she felt in a better state of mind to reply to some of Brienne’s gently prodding emails. Thistle and Bert got mice according to her feeding schedule. 

The big couch embraced her as she opened her laptop. 

A eulogy. The cursor blinked accusatory at her. What right did she have to have the final word on her mother’s life? 

But if not her then who? 

She decided to just start writing and see where it took her. The words started slow, a trickle of polite pantomime. But once she was clear of platitudes, it was as if the faucet had been yanked open. It poured out of her, splashing messily everywhere. It was her pain and confusion, her pride and her happy memories. 

It was too much for one short speech, but it gave her somewhere to start. 

The day of the funeral dawned hazy and humid. She brushed through her hair carefully then braided it back in one single rope, simple mourning shape. Her dress was a featureless black sheath and conservitavely cut. The ceremony would be next to the mausoleum, so she put on flats instead of her usual sharp heels. It was too hot for makeup that would just run in her eyes and off her face. 

When she looked in the mirror, she looked as unlike her mother as she could without surgery. 

A text came through from Brienne, _Your ride will be there shortly. We’ll see you soon. It’ll be over quicker than you think._

They’d discussed the car service for the day, so Myrcella assumed they would start their work with her. 

“Hey, ‘Cella,” Podrick was standing next to his sensible blue sedan, phone jammed into his pocket as soon as she appeared. 

“Oh, no,” she laughed weakly. “You weren’t put to work today, were you?” 

“I offered,” he smiled and opened the passenger door for her. “I thought maybe it’d be nicer to see a familiar face. Sorry it’s just mine.” 

“No, please don’t say that,” she slid into the seat. “Thank you. It is much better.” 

Pod took the driver’s seat, pulling out into traffic, apparently content to lapse into quiet as he navigated through the city. He was wearing a nice vest, a subdue embroidery of deep purple on black over a black button down shirt. He’d shaved, his face so youthful that people would probably mistake them as the same age, instead of the eight years he had on her. 

The car was impeccably clean and everything smelled like sandalwood. 

“Did you ever meet her?” She asked into the quiet. 

“Once or twice,” Pod glanced at her. “Not enough to know her.” 

“I don’t think I did either,” she looked out the window. “I don’t even know if your parents are still alive. I should know that.” 

“Why?” Pod sounded genuinely surprised. “It’s never come up. But no, they’ve both been gone a long time.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” he signaled to merge, “they were...what they were. So.” 

“So,” she agreed with a sigh. 

The graveyard was massive. Pod took them through one of the grand gates, the gravel roads grinding under the wheels. He seemed to know exactly where to go, weaving through the neat grid that was marked only with numbers and letters until the Lannister museum rose like a behemoth over the horizon. 

“It’s so hideous,” she muttered. 

“Tyrion said the same thing,” Pod laughed and pulled up behind a line of cars. “We came by yesterday to make sure everything was set up and he critiqued the architecture the whole time.” 

“I just want to be cremated,” she decided, staring at the soaring edifice. “Toss my ashes off a cliff and leave it at that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said as if it was a directive. 

They got out and the heat immediately hit her like a hammer. She put a hand to the car to steady herself for a moment. Pod stayed at her left elbow, not touching, but seemingly ready to lend a hand if required. 

“Is everyone else here already?” 

“Nearly,” he shrugged. “But there’s no rush. They’ll wait.” 

“No, that’s okay. Let’s go.” 

The chairs were set up in short rows arrayed facing the mausoleum. The priest stood on the steps in low conversation with Uncle Jaime. He looked, if anything, worse than earlier in the week. His eyes were red-rimmed and his grimace deepened his wrinkles. He kept looking at the casket, open still. 

There were other people milling around, making conversation. If it weren’t for the dead body, it would feel almost festive. 

“They’re going to close the casket before the funeral starts,” Pod whispered to her. “If you don’t want to see her, you can stay back here until they ring the bell.” 

“Thank you,” she glanced at him. “You don’t have to babysit me, I’m sure you’ve got other things to do.” 

“Not today,” he shrugged. 

Not sure what to make of that, she approached the casket with him at her back. 

The woman in the coffin was beautiful and very clearly dead. None of her mother’s animating force lay in the falsely pink cheeks or the blond wig that was two shades too light to be her natural hair. She let out a shaky breath, not sure if it was relief or numbness that took her. 

“They did a good job,” Tom stepped up beside her. 

“Sure,” she said absently. Uncle Jaime stepped away from the priest. 

“Joffery was denied a day pass for the funeral,” he informed them. 

“That was an option?” Tom’s voice escalated up a register. 

“Your surprise is mine,” Uncle Jaime assured him, “I got the call this morning like I was supposed to know about it.” 

“Was she still writing to him?” 

“Apparently,” Uncle Jaime touched the lip of the coffin, “I knew she kept trying to reach him.” 

Myrcella bit her lip to keep the words in. The mere idea of having to do this with Joffery standing handcuffed in the background poured cold water into her veins. 

The bell tolled. They took their seats. She sat stiff and still as the priest recited the formal words. Myrcella had stopped believing in the gods a long time ago. Beside her, Uncle Jaime’s knee rattled up and down, his eyes glued to the coffin. Tommen on her other side pulled at a string in his sleeve like he would’ve when they were small, unraveling the seam at the cuff. 

She waited, suspended until it was her turn. The sun was in her eyes when she turned to face the crowd. Public speaking had stopped phasing her years ago, but now her hands shook as unfolded the piece of paper. The light cut her off from the crowd, forced her eyes to her handwriting. 

“My mother was born in a privileged life,” she could hear the slight reverberation of her words, a half-step echo of the PA system, “she was incredibly smart and very beautiful. The world should’ve been hers. But right from the start, she was shoved hard into a box. Expected to marry early and raise children. She lost her own mother when she was only seven. From then on, she was the woman of the household. There are photos of her at twelve sitting at my grandfather’s left hand as hostess. She looked like she knew what she was doing even then. 

“But I know she felt trapped. And like many things that are trapped, she lashed out,,” she was starting to sweat. The coffin was closed now, but it felt accusatory anyway. Eavesdropping on her committing the worst of all sins: talking badly about family in public. “I learned from her early that there were rules. Right ways and wrong ways of doing anything you could imagine. She never said, but who would’ve taught her those rules? I imagine she had to come up with them herself from hard won lessons. 

“My mother...my mother loved her children. She condemned herself trying to save one of us, as misguided as it was. Even after I stopped seeing her, I knew she still loved me. She adored Tom. He’s been amazing to her all these years and probably he should be up here instead of me. He’d tell you that she tried her best. He’d tell you about her getting him his first kittens, rocking him to sleep, and protecting him from our grandfather when she could. She did those things. That was her too. 

“She could be kind. She could be cruel. She could love you and still try to take you apart at the seams. She’d protect you from the world, but never from her own razor words,” the paper was tearing a little, crumpling under the force of her grip. “My mother was a fire in a hearth. It looks tame, it warms the room, but it’s still a fire and given the opportunity, it would burn down the house.

“The greatest gift she gave me was releasing me, to letting me find a way to other women. When she gave me over to Brienne, who mothered me when no one could’ve asked that of her. To my Aunt Margaery, who showed me you could be feminine and powerful without being cruel. To Sansa, who is my first and best friend. Maybe it was an unintended consequence of a rash action, but I like to think it was her gift to us. She let us go so we could find our way to people that cared about us, who could let us grow up differently than she had. And that’s probably the best thing any mother could do.

So thank you, Mother. I hope wherever you are now, your fire can rage until it burns itself out and then maybe you can be at peace.” 

There was silence afterwards. She could feel, but not see the press of eyes on her as she walked back to her seat. Tommen grabbed her wrist when she sat down, gripping it too tight. 

“It was right,” he said softly.

That was really the only benediction she needed. 

“What houses stand to carry this woman to her final resting place?” The priest called. “Who will see her rightfully buried?” 

“Lannister,” Uncle Jaime got to his feet. He walked to the coffin, his shoulders bent as he put his hand to the first handle. 

“Baratheon,” Uncle Renly went next, the sun catching in his silvering hair as he stood oppisote Uncle Jaime, taking up his handle. 

“Tyrell,” and Uncle Loras on his heels, his beauty undimmed by his somber clothes. 

“Greyjoy,” Yara gave Myrcella a nod as she stepped up. 

“Stark,” Robb strode up the aisle. He was wearing Stark colors instead of black. Probably a quiet defiance to the whole affair, but that was his right all things considered. 

Uncle Tyrion had somewhat reluctantly agreed to be the sixth house, representing Grass, but before his voice could be heard, 

“Martell,” rang through the crowd. 

“Oh-” she cried then put her hand over her mouth. 

Trystane put his hand on the sixth handle. There was no hesitancy in his step, no acknowledgement that he had come without warning. The coffin went up, born on six shoulders and carried up into the steps, into the mausoleum. The small door halfway up the wall was already opened. 

The coffin slid in, six heads of house slotting Cersei Lannister into her final resting place. It was Uncle Jaime who closed that little door, the barely perceptible thud signaling the end. The priest got through the final blessings, reminding them that death awaited everyone and it was best to go with a clear conscience. 

“Receiving line,” she said more to herself than Tom. 

“Brienne thought we’d be best off just standing here, people will come to us,” he said anyway.

So they stood, Uncle Jaime reclaiming his position beside them. There were looky-loos, of course, members of households just close enough that there was no way to politely bounce them out. They mouthed half-hearted apologies that she gave polite thank yous too. 

“Oh ‘Cella,” then Sansa was there, her eyes wide with understanding. 

“I’m so glad you came,” she threw her arms around her. Sansa held her back. 

“Of course, I came, don’t be ridiculous, ” her voice hitched too and they were both crying like children, clinging to each other. 

By the time the tears cleared, the ragged ends of the receiving line had too. People had splintered in small groups, talking quietly and solemnly. Towards the back, Pod folded the chairs back up and put them into someone’s truck bed. He worked methodically, seemingly unaware of the buzz of small talk around him. 

And then there was Trystane, standing off to the side. He looked entirely out of place. The humidity was wreaking havoc on his beautiful curls and he was dressed for a Dornish funeral with purple draping linens. He looked like a romance novel hero plopped down in the middle of an indie film. 

“I’ll let you two talk,” Sansa squeezed her hand one last time. “We’re all going back to the house after. I’ll see you there.” 

“Thank you,” she said a last time even though Sansa barely seemed to hear her, already walking away to rejoin her brother, waiting impatiently at their car. 

Trytstane took a single step towards her, then stopped as if the distance was suddenly insurmountable. She crossed it, holding out her hand to him, 

“Thank you for coming.” 

“Don’t do that,” he smiled at her, reached out and pet down the strands of hair that had escaped her braid. “Don’t be that now.” 

“But you didn’t have to,” she dropped her voice as the priest went by clearly in a hurry to escape the oppressive heat, his robes dragging through the grass. “Not anymore.” 

“I did,” he folded his other hand over hers, “I would go anywhere for you.” 

“But not stay,” she swallowed hard, the tears were still ready behind her eyes. 

“Not here,” he agreed. He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingertips. “And you won’t come live with me.” 

“No,” she wanted to. She always wanted to for a moment, for a minute, for a day. But it passed. She wanted other things more. Her business, her family. The life that she’d built for herself. 

“So be it,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll still come if you need me.” 

“Same here,” she let her hand drop out of his. “You can always call me.” 

“You would’ve made a glorious Martell,” he nodded, cleared his throat and turned away. “Goodbye, Myrcella.” 

“Bye, Tryst,” she watched him walk away. 

It was too much. Not enough. 

“Have you seen my wife?” Uncle Jaime was asking someone behind her. “I swear you’d think she’d be impossible to lose.” 

“I’ll find her,” she volunteered, happy for a reason to slip away. 

Brienne wouldn’t have gone far. Maybe she was visiting the Tarth plot. Mrycella walked the length of the mausoleum before she heard someone let out a high pitched giggle. Frowning, she picked up the pace and caught the smell of smoke. She walked faster, turning the corner ready to confront whatever hooligan was having a party at her family’s expense. 

Instead she found Brienne and Uncle Tyrion, leaning up against the marble wall mid-laughing fit, a trail of thin smoke rising up towards the heavens. 

“Are you two smoking?” she demanded. 

“Oh shit,” Uncle Tyrion half choked on a laugh, ducking one hand behind his back like a guilty middle schooler. 

“Don’t smoke!” Brienne blurted out, her face red as a tomato. “It’s bad for you!” 

“Yes, I know that,” she said blankly. “What the fuck?” 

“Sorry, sorry,” he dropped the cigarette, grinding it under his foot. “Just...sorry. But... ding dong.” 

Brienne started laughing again, practically doubled over. There was an edge of hysteria in it which rang alarm bells because Brienne was never hysterical. 

“Ding dong?” Myrcella looked between them. 

“Oh, Dorothy.” Uncle Tyrion looked balefully up at her and said entirely flatly. “The wicked wicked witch is dead.” 

“That’s horrible!” she said and then the whole scene unfolded and Uncle Tyrion never ever made those kinds of jokes and Brienne would never ever laugh at them, even if he did. 

But they did and they were because up was down and everything made no sense. She started laughing too, leaning against the side of the horrible building filled with a hundred dead ancestors. Laughing on the day of her mother’s funeral because she was dead and it was over, whatever that meant. 

“That’s so bad,” Brienne was wheezing. “It’s such a terrible joke and we’re so horrible for laughing at it. It’s her funeral!” 

“That’s why it’s funny!” Tyrion threw up his arms. 

It wasn’t funny, Myrcella laughed until she gave herself hiccups and Uncle Jaime found all three of them like that. 

“What happened here?” he asked, baffled. 

“Nothing,” Brienne sputtered, reaching for him then stopping, her hand falling limply to her side. 

“You look like you’re having a heart attack,” he frowned at her. 

“Just a cathartic laugh, brother dear,” Uncle Tyrion sucked in a few deep breaths. “Ow, I think I gave myself a cramp.” 

“It’s okay,” Myrcella scrubbed a hand over her aching eyes. “We’re okay.” 

The towncar was waiting. Brienne and Uncle Jaime got in, Tommen and Theon already inside. They were all tired looking, sweaty and faded. Brienne wasn’t holding Uncle Jaime’s hand.

_The phone rang and rang, but Myrcella held it to her ear anway. She was on the cliffside, looking down at the rough surf of the ocean a hundred feet more below._

_“Hello?” Uncle Jaime’s voice filed her ear._

_“It’s Thursday,” she cleared her throat. “You have PT in a half an hour.”_

_“Is that so?” he laughed, rusty over the line. “Thank you, Mercy-mine.”_

_“Do you want me to send a car to get you?”_

_“Thanks, but I can call a cab,” he sounded amused which was better than the last time she’d called when he’d been irritated though not, seemingly, at her. “Unless...do you want to come?”_

_She really did. The Rock had been a nightmare since the videos had gone live. Mother has shouted at Grandfather, their voices ringing through the slowly emptying halls. The servants had left one by one, severance checks in hand. It felt like the world was closing down around her._

_At least one of the chauffeurs was left even if he’d probably been told to rat her out to Mother and she’d be in for it when she got home. Myrcella didn’t get to go inside Brienne’s home, only got a brief glimpse as the car pulled into the driveway and Uncle Jaime was outside. He had on a ratty t-shirt and faded pajama pants._

_“You’re going out in that?” she asked, eyes wide._

_“Options get a little limited when you’ve got the one hand,” Uncle Jaime hadn’t scowled at her, just put his arm around her._

_She watched him in the PT room. It looked like it hurt a lot, sweat sheening on his forehead. Afterwards, he was irritable again even though he took her out to lunch and let her get whatever she wanted. She kept quiet, watching him try to use his overworked hand to pick up a spoon until cursing he gave up and switched._

_“If you don’t want to go, why do you want me to remind you?” she asked quietly. “I won’t if you don’t want me too.”_

_“Because she deserves someone who can hold her hand,” Uncle Jaime muttered darkly, staring into the soup as if it had personally offended him. “It’s the least I can do.”_

_For a brief, swooping horrifying moment, Myrcella thought she meant Mother. The idea of Uncle Jaime doing all this work for that, for the cold wall that had grown thicker and thicker until the very first syllable of her Uncle’s name sent her mother in a furious rage made her sick to her stomach._

_Instead, he’d meant Brienne. And he’d been holding her hand ever since._

“Getting in or not?” Tom was half-asleep already against Theon’s shoulder, staring at her blearily. Brienne and Uncle Jaime weren’t even looking at each other now. 

She looked over her shoulder where Pod was still folding up the chairs. 

“You go,” she waved off the car. “I’ve got a ride.”

The car left without her. She headed over to one of the remaining rows of chairs and started folding them too. Pod glanced over, eyebrows going up in surprise, but he didn’t say anything. Working together, the job was finished quickly. The truck turned out to be Bronn’s, who was taking a nap in the front seat. The idea that he’d been there the whole time, so disconnected from the event that he’d slept through it was weirdly reassuring. 

“Can I get a ride?” she asked. “If you’re going back to the house.” 

“Of course,” Pod walked back down the road to where his car now sat as an isolated spit of color against the grey road and summer scorched grass. 

The sandalwood smell was nice. She rubbed her hand over the fuzzy cloth of the seat. 

“Margie calls the color greige,” Pod offered up as he buckled his seatbelt. “Isn’t that an awful name for a nice color?” 

“Yeah,” she leaned her head back. “I have a nailpolish that would match it. But it’s called Bobbing for Baubles, I think.” 

“Nail polish names are wild,” he said amused. He turned the passenger side air vent towards her, a puff of hot air hit her face and then a rush of slowly cooling breeze as they headed out. She checked his nails on the steering wheel. There were chips of glittery purple clinging to the center of each one. 

“You should use a better topcoat,” she decided. “It won’t crack so much.” 

“I do. This was from the bar,” he sighed, “I washed glasses last night. With Brienne out, I’ve been trying to lend a hand.” 

“You don’t even work there anymore,” she frowned. 

“There’s work and there’s work,” he said vaguely. “I mean the studio is right there and Tyrion isn’t exactly up to doing a double anymore.” 

The apartments above Beauty’s Revenge had slowly vacated over the years and Uncle Tyrion chose not to find new tenants, instead waiting for Brienne to begrudgingly admit she could use more space. It morphed into a small dance studio for amateurs with Pod and Missandei at the helm, a part of the gym, but mostly doing it’s own thing. They’d taken over the third floor recently, expanding their offerings. As far she knew that had been the end of anyone pretending Pod worked at the bar anymore. 

“That was kind of you,” she looked down at her own glossy nails. There was a chip on her middle finger, some careless motion from last night after they’d finally dried. Because you had your nails done when you went out. That was a rule too. 

“I saw Trystane. Are you okay? I mean, shit you’re not okay. I know with your mom..but...” 

“I’m really really not okay,” she decided, looking up at him. “But thanks for asking. It happened before this. He just came today to be supportive.” 

“Oh good. I was thinking that it was a real dick move to break up with someone at a funeral. I like the Martells, it’d be a shame to go around hating one of them.” 

She snorted, “Don’t hate them on my account. It went as well as any break up can.” 

“That good, huh?” He indicated the glove compartment. “Got a flask in there if you want a medicinal shot.” 

“...I do,” she realized and opened it up. The flask was nice, his initials embossed in the leather that surrounded the copper. The pungent waft of whiskey met her nose when she opened it. It was hot when it hit her tongue, but she wasn’t in it for the taste. Carefully, she recapped it and stuck it back in the glove compartment. “Thanks. It almost doesn’t taste like gasoline.” 

“It’s the good stuff,” he laughed. “I hate whiskey too. Tyrion gave it to me. With the flask. I figure it’s worth keeping on hand.” 

“I don’t actually drink a lot. It’s just been a weird week.” 

“I think you’re allowed just now,” he said softly. “Ready?” 

They were turning onto the street. Cars were parked along the road. He pulled up right to the front of the house, “Go on, Tom said I could park in their driveway.”

She wanted to protest, but she didn’t even know what she was delaying now. It’d only be friends and family there. 

“Thanks,” she said instead and got out. 

There was a respectfully restrained tone when she walked in. Everyone seemed to be trying to do the right thing, hovering around the kitchen’s offerings of cold cuts and making soft conversation. 

“Let’s go for a walk,” Sansa put her hand to Myrcella’s elbow as soon as she came in. “It’s a nice day.” 

And there seemed to be a preplanned chain of custody after that. They went for a walk and when they got back, Robb asked her for advice on a property he’d been considering near to Winerfell. Then Theon swung in and shoved a plate of food into her hands with gossip at hand about the nasty next door neighbors who had tried to send a fruit basket to the house and Uncle Jaime had handwritten a note that it should be returned to sender once the fruit had rotted. 

Tommen appeared to sling an arm around Theon’s shoulders as his story wound down, 

“Hey, what’s going on with Uncle Jaime and Brienne?” 

“I was hoping you knew,” Myrcella sighed. 

They weren’t standing together, Brienne having gravitated towards Sansa and Uncle Jaime was apparently trying to pretend to be deeply involved in what Uncle Tyrion was saying to him, but his eyes kept drifting to his wife. 

“I guess it’s awkward,” Tom frowned. “I mean he’s really cut up about Mother.” 

The three of them let that sit between them. 

“Does it ever stop making you guys uncomfortable?” Theon asked eventually. 

“No,” they chorused. 

“It’s the worst,” Tom sighed. “I just...you can’t think about it all the time.” 

“I was thinking when I wrote the eulogy how fucked up things must’ve been for that to seem like the best choice,” Myrcella admitted, food leaden in her stomach now. “What did their day to day lives look like? How scared were they?” 

“I used to think Uncle Jaime had it worse,” Tom ran a hand through his curls, disarraying them from their careful arrangement from the morning. “Like, Mother was so off the rails those last few years...but I don’t know now. She knew that he was okay without her and maybe she just.. Wasn’t. Not really. Not like she thought she could be.” 

_“You’re back!” Mother’s face lit up and she ran (ran! Mother who never moved at anything more than a languid stroll outside of her private gym) down the hall to the door where Uncle Jaime stood framed by the rain outside._

_“I came as soon as I heard,” Uncle Jaime had a rucksack that he dropped to the floor, his arms opening wide for her._

_They collided together, their limbs and hair so perfectly matched that it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Myrcella hadn’t seen her Uncle in three years. He’d gone overseas on their grandfather’s orders after Tommen was born, only coming back once for the holidays._

_Now he was parting from Mother to kneel down and open his arms to her, “Hello, Mercy-mine. Look at you!”_

_And she ran to him like Mother had without knowing why. His arms closed around her and she started to cry, clinging to him like a barnacle._

_“Now what’s that about?” He held her close, worry thick in his voice. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”_

_She was crying because since her father’s death, everything had felt wrong and unsettled. But somehow with his arms around her, safety was restored. Balance returned. But she couldn't find the words._

_“I’m really happy,” she said instead, sniffling. Her mother’s hand brushed over the crown of her head, nearly weightless._

_“So am I,” Mother said warmly. “So am I.”_

“I think they had some identity issues,” she settled on. “I mean they were like a unit as kids, and then...” 

She mimed a break part with a cookie on the plate Theon had bought her, the crumbs gathering in the melon rinds her teeth had stripped clean. 

“Yeah that could do it,” Theon looked between her and Tom mildly. 

“Oh shut up,” Tom laughed and shoved him very gently, Theon swaying like a reed. “We’re a normal amount of co-dependent. Both of our therapists say so.” 

“Yeah,” Myrcella smiled wanly. She’d stopped going to therapy years ago. Maybe she should go back. “Our maladoptions are totally normal.” 

“Not judging,” Theon kissed Tom’s cheek absently, “I like your maladoptions.” 

It seemed weirdly private suddenly and Myrcella stepped away from them. She drifted a little and finally, decided what she really wanted to do was just go home and curl up on her couch and go numb on tv. 

“Hey,” she stepped towards Brienne and Sansa. “I think I’m going to go home. Sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Sansa sat her glass down. “Just let me get my purse.” 

“What? Why?” 

“I’m staying over,” she said as if it was obvious. 

“Oh,” she paused, accessed and yes she wanted that very much. “Okay.” 

Sansa moved to her brother, apparently telling him she was going. 

“You’re handling this well,” Brienne offered, looking a bit bemused by the crowd in her home. Not upset, but like they’d shown up when she wasn’t looking. 

“No, I’m not,” she countered reflexively. 

“You are,” Brienne touched her elbow, a single point of contact, “think about Myrcella ten years ago. Think about what she would’ve done.” 

“Ugh,” she pulled a face that made Brienne laugh a little. “I...are you guys okay?” 

Brienne didn’t make her clarify, “Don’t worry about us, Cella.” 

“That’s not the same as ‘yes, everything is fine.’” 

“Everything isn’t fine,” Brienne shrugged. “But it will be. So don’t worry about us. We’ve weathered worse together.” 

Sansa came back then and Myrcella made some perfunctory goodbyes. They took an Uber back to the apartment building. It had a sharp piney smell and Myrcella rolled down the windows to get in some fresh air. 

They shared her bed after long hours of talking and tv watching. Sansa had packed apparently, her enormous purse disgorging pajamas. They slept facing each other, each curled up like commas. Myrcella remembered Yara heaving around in the guest room bed. She tried to remember if Sansa and Yara had met for more than perfunctory hello. She wondered if they’d like each other. 

Sansa hadn’t texted Rowan from the bed. Instead, she’d called him from the living room while Myrcella was in the bathroom. Myrcella could hear her voice, but not the words. Just the general practical tone of her voice, the way it rose up when Eddie must’ve gotten on the phone and the bell of laughter when Rowan returned. 

She was gone in the morning, leaving behind a sweet scented hug and an order to call whenever she wanted. 

Then...life just went on. Myrcella went back to work on Monday. Jeyne dutifully caught her up without asking her any personal questions and it was a relief. No one stopped by her office to offer condolences, though everyone seemed to have a reason to come in and ask her about something business related. 

She worked, she went home late and ate dinner at her counter. She fell asleep on the couch a few times. On Sunday, she complained of a headache instead of going to family dinner and no one called her on it. Instead she ate too much fried rice and played a game on her phone while Flea slept on her stomach. The next week, she just didn’t come and aside from a check in, they let her be. 

Hermiting was boring though so she called Sansa when she usually did and went out for dinner with some of her college friends. When Tom texted her asking if she’d seen his left cufflink when she was in the guest room, she texted back and so on. 

On Friday, she got a text from Aunt Margaery : _Come out with us tomorrow night._

And she could ask for details, but she felt tired of decisions: _ok._

Aunt Margaery picked her up, Yara in the passenger seat. They were both dressed down and she breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t bothered much, and realized too late it might be fancy. 

“You look worn through,” Aunt Margaery tutted. 

“Long week.” 

An object hurtled towards her and she managed to grab it before it collided with her face. A bottle of water. Yara grinned, all teeth, over her shoulder at her. 

She drank it without further pressing. Aunt Margaery was a big believer in the power of hydration which apparently Yara found deeply amusing. The two of them resumed some conversation, apparently not requiring her to take part which was kind of nice. She rested her forehead against the window, watching the city lights streak by. 

They pulled into a lot of a low flat building. People were surging towards the building, laughter and talk weaving in around them. Yara put her arm around Aunt Margaery’s waist, and Aunt Margaery took Myrcella’s hand. 

“Where are we anyway?” she allowed herself to be led across the parking lot like a child, amused by the old rearing protectiveness. 

“Oh!” Aunt Margaery laughed, “I forgot to tell you! It’s Pod’s thing. I always try to come to support him.” 

She tried to parse that out as they entered the lobby of what turned out to be a hotel. There was a little table set up by the ballroom doors where people were streaming in. A banner hung over the door declaring it, “Westeros Regional Pole Dancing Competition” with a few sparkly balloons rising up from it. 

“Oh wow, I didn’t know he was still competing,” she managed to get out. She thought about those flecks of purple polish all of a sudden, a rush of blood to her cheeks. 

The ballroom was dark, littered with small tables lined up before the stage. The poles looked high in person, intimidating and sleek. Myrcella had always known in theory what Pod did. He was open about it though he never bragged. His medals were arranged tastefully on the wall of the dance studio among Missandei’s ballroom dancing trophies and a single photo of Brienne in the ring standing over a huge crumpled man, cheeks flushed and her rare bright smile gleaming. 

“He stopped for a bit two years ago,” Aunt Margaery sat down at a table fairly close to the makeshift stage. “Tore a ligament, but it’s healed up now.” 

It was strange to think of Pod’s life. He had always stood at the periphery of her own. Present at big events, occasionally appearing to assist Brienne or more often now, just meet up as a friend. The handful of times Myrcella had gone to the bar or the gym the last few years, she might see him long enough to say hello. 

The funeral was probably the most time she’d spent with him in years. And she hadn’t known his own parents were long gone or that he’d gotten injured or that he still competed. 

And now she was going to watch him pole dance. What a month. 

“We timed it well,” Yara was listening to the announcements, eyebrows furrowed. “Championship rounds are starting. Sounds like women are first.” 

“Oh, good, who wants a drink?” 

They all had martinis in front of them as a woman in a sequined leotard took the stage and defied gravity. Myrcella watched wide eyed as she did trick after trick and the next competitor did the same. 

“This is amazing,” she said breathlessly. 

“Isn’t it? Aunt Margaery laughed. “I went to one of his classes once and my abs were killing me for days.” 

“I can do that,” Yara said casually as the woman hung upside down, only her thighs kept her suspended. “But not for that long.” 

Leaving that information where she found it, Myrcella sipped her drink and watched. Eventually the parade of talented women ended and the announcer said gleefully, 

“And returning to try and reclaim his title, number 49, Podrick Payne!”

Podrick stepped onto the stage. He wore a silvery robe over a cartoonish 80s fitness outfit complete with headband and wristbands. Olive Newton John’s “Physical”. A cheer went up through the crowd. 

The robe dropped and he was wearing a very tiny pair of tight neon pink shorts and a yellow skin tight crop top. And then very casually he launched himself upward in an effortless arch to arrive halfway up the pole. His act was less slow grace then some of the others, more technical movements. 

Or at least that’s what Myrcella gleaned later during Aunt Margaery’s explanation of the judging. All Myrcella saw were his muscular thighs and wide wide smile. He was more confident ten feet in the air, hovering in mid-air then she’d ever thought him to be with his feet firmly planted on the ground.  
There were other, equally if not more, handsome performers that came on after him. One did such an amazing backbend that the audience as one inhaled a gasp. Myrcella applauded for all of them. 

But she didn’t really see them. Her mind was stuck on the looping moment of Pod taking the stage with perfect confidence, straight backed and wide smile that she was entirely used to being smothered by the broad personalities of her family. 

Her brain was busy reorganizing memories, plucking discarded moments off the cutting room floor. Faithful Pod who never had a bad word for anyone. Who didn’t mind occasionally picking up a moody teenage girl from soccer practice or sitting quietly with a small boy in a crowded bar and explaining division to him while cutting up a bowl of limes for the night’s service. The man he’d become while she was busy growing up herself. A man that could easily have his own thriving business without help, but instead stayed close to home. Who helped Uncle Tyrion at the bar on the bad night so he wouldn’t have to stay on his feet too long. Who went out of his way to bring her to her mother’s funeral although any car service could’ve done the job. 

A man who was skilled and surprisingly beautiful, wore nailpolish and glitter. And knew her secrets. 

He didn’t win back his title though he did come in second. Aunt Margaery got to her feet and cheered and Yara let loose a loud whistle. He took the trophy like it meant very little, turning to applaud the winner. 

“Let’s go hover around the changing room doors like creepy fans,” Aunt Margaery decided. 

“No need,” Yara elbowed her, “he’s coming to us.” 

Sure enough, Pod had discreetly not gone off stage, but instead walked down the stairs on the side and through the crowd to them. Most people were already busy gathering their things, though a few tried to waylay him. He gave quick smiling responses, but didn’t stop moving until he reached their table, still holding the trophy under one silvery-robed arm. 

“Good job,” Aunt Margaery hugged him. “You added back in that rotation thing.” 

“I did,” he laughed and bore up under the hearty backslap Yara delivered. “I think it probably kept me in the standings. But this is probably my last big one. They offered me a judging position for nationals and I think I’m going to take it.”

“Retirement!” Aunt Margaery tsked. “You’re going to make me feel old.” 

“Not possible,” he chided. 

“I’m glad I made it then,” Myrcella said. His eyes drifted to her in quiet surprise. “I would’ve missed seeing you perform live at all.” 

“I’m glad you came too,” he glanced meaningfully at Aunt Margaery, who looked at him with innocent blankness. “I should go get changed and then maybe we could get something to eat.” 

She’d already had dinner and was confident that Yara and Aunt Margaery had too, but they all readily agreed. They went outside to wait by the entrance where a few others had had the same idea. The air was thick with humidity. She could feel her hair coming loose from her braid, stray strands falling into her face. 

Pod emerged not long after in faded denim shorts and a black Beauty’s Revenge tank top, a gym bag over one shoulder. His biceps gleamed with only half wiped away glitter and oil in the harsh white light of the parking lot. 

Aunt Margaery’s phone chimed atonally. She rifled through her purse and pulled it out. 

“Oh, it’s Grandmother, just a second,” she walked off. 

“You want to carb load?” Yara was leaning against the handrail. “Or should we go find a bucket of salad.” 

“Definitely carbs,” Pod laughed. 

“I know a gastropub that serves giant pretzels,” Myrcella offered. “It’s not far from here. Big as your head with good mustard.” 

“That sounds good,” he agreed readily. “Maybe a burger or something too. I was so nervous tonight, I barely ate.” 

“You still get nervous?” 

“Sure,” he shrugged. “Not when I’m teaching or anything, but competitions are different. I never get used to people judging me. I’ll probably be a terrible judge. Too nice to everyone.” 

“World could use a little more of that,” she touched his wrist, not sure when her hand had gotten away from him. “I bet you’ll do great.” 

“Sorry,” Aunt Margaery returned, “Devvy locked herself out of the guest house and my grandmother is going to murder him. I’m the only one that has the backup key apparently.” 

“Oh,” Pod looked a little crestfallen, “well family calls.” 

“I’ll take you out for a real dinner soon,” she assured him, already looking ready to leave. Yara pushed off the stairs. “I can drop you off after I sort it out, Cella. Sorry about the inconvenience.” 

“Oh, no, um,” Pod glanced at her, “I mean I could take you home.” 

“I do still want a pretzel,” she decided. And to not be subjected to the intricate dramas of the Tyrells. She loved Aunt Margaery and Uncle Loras, but was fine with keeping a distance from the rest. 

“Get yourself a snack,” Aunt Margaery agreed and kissed her on the cheek before hurrying away, Yara more leisurely on her heels. 

“So,” Pod turned to face her, “let’s see a bar about a pretzel, huh?” 

And they did. The gastropub was lively on a Saturday night, a band playing in the corner, people crowded around the bar. But a table opened up shortly after they walked in. They both got a beer and the pretzels came out soft and hot, delicious in the mustard. She picked at hers slowly as Pod worked through a burger. 

“Are you really retiring?” 

“Yeah, think so,” he sighed, “I probably could keep up, but I hardly have time to practice anymore and I want to focus more on the school.”

“Do you like teaching?” 

“I don’t think I’d like it in a school, but in a studio it’s great. People don’t tend to spend money on things they don’t want to learn so people are pretty engaged. And Missy is a great business partner.”

“I don’t think I’ve taken a class in anything since I graduated college. Just a few seminars,” she admitted. 

“What do you do for fun these days then?” 

“Work,” she laughed, self-deprecating. “It seems like there’s always something else to be done when I get home. I see friends a lot, but no hobbies.” 

“We should find you a hobby,” he sat back and took a sip of his beer, looking at her over the rim of the glass. 

“What’s yours?” 

“Oh, I like to make things. I can’t settle on anything and I’m not good at half of them, but anything that has an end product is fun. Knitting, sculpting. Woodworking was a disaster.” 

“You still have all your fingers so it couldn’t be that bad,” she said playfully. 

“A disaster that was mostly furniture related,” he amended. “Anyway, it’s something that’s outside my head and I like that.” 

“I like making the numbers work,” she picked another piece off her pretzel, running it through the mustard. “I guess my business isn’t interesting to most people, but I like seeing how things will fall together, how the numbers will go.” 

“I...have no idea what your business actually does,” he said sheepishly. “Brienne tried to explain it to me once, but-” 

“It’s not her thing either,” she shook her head fondly. “It’s not really that esoteric. People with too much money and too many homes or businesses hire me to help them consolidate and run things more profitably. Some of it is having a good guess at how things are going to change down the line and some of it is just bringing common sense to people who are too rich to have it.” 

“So what you’re saying is that talking your Uncle down from buying Picasso's set you on your life path?” 

“Well, you’re not wrong,” she laughed. “But if he were my client, which please just put me to a merciful death if that ever happened, I wouldn’t tell him not to buy art. It makes him happy, it has a purpose basically. Mostly I’m talking people down from their fifth summer home and into creating trust funds for their kids. Think of it as an accountant by way of a psychologist. “

“It must be like herding cats.” 

“I’m good at herding cats.” 

“I’ll bet you are.” 

They looked at each other across the table, she licked her lips, 

“Would you...do you think you’d like a cup of coffee? At my place?” 

A faint brush of pink rose to his cheeks, “I’d like that a lot, actually.” 

It probably should’ve been awkward or weird. Maybe they should’ve taken some time and discussed things, but as soon as her apartment door closed it was like they were magnetized together. To her great relief, he was an excellent kisser and willing to put his muscles to work in lifting her up against the wall. 

When the whirlwind had ebbed and they were both sweating besides each other in the sheets, she reached for his hand and was pleased that he held it back. 

“That was the best first time I’ve ever had,” she told him, staring addled at the ceiling. “You’re amazing.” 

“So are you.” 

“You can...should... stay the night?” she stumbled through it, her heart pounding. “I’d like it if you did.” 

“Borrow your shower first?” 

She listened to the water fall in the bathroom, and despite meaning to wait for him, she slipped into sleep. He was there when she woke up, dark hair flattened a little on side, his nose whistling quietly. His body was different that Trystane’s, more like a boyfriend she’d had briefly in her early twenties that had played rugby. Powerful for a use. He had more morning scruff too, the outline of a dark beard already making itself known. 

Quietly she started to roll out of bed, considering putting on a pot of coffee. 

“Hey,” he said so quietly she almost missed it. His eyes were open when she turned back. 

He reached across the bed, touched her shoulder softly. A jolt of lust shut through her so strong it made her dizzy. The bed was in shambles by the time they were done again, pillows on the floor and the fitted sheet uplifted from three corners of the mattress. 

“Can I buy you breakfast?” he asked as they lay still entangled. 

There was a brunch place across the street. She rarely went there, usually traveling across town to meet up with her college friends, who had settled closer together or down South to Sansa’s where they had a favorite diner. It was still early for the hungover crowed, they got a table outside shielded by an umbrella from the first threat of the day’s heat. 

“I can’t decide between savory or sweet,” she grasped for a conversation, worried the easy silence boded poorly. 

“How about we each get one and split?” he leaned in, and there was still a stray twinkle of glitter in one of his eyebrows. Unthinkingly, she reached out to brush it away. His lips grazed her wrist. 

“Great idea,” she smiled and he smiled back, bright as the summer sun. 

Halfway through the meal, his phone beeped and he checked it with a groan, “I forgot. I promised a friend I’d help tend their booth at a craft fair this afternoon.” 

“Oh,” she blinked, not sure why she felt disappointed. “Which one?” 

“It’s the quarterly KL Crafters League,” he shrugged, “he makes stained glass boxes and things. I have to mostly just sit and smile and occasionally ring things up while he gets a lunch and networking break. He does the same for me when there’s street fairs near the school.” 

“I could keep you company,” she offered and wanted to eat the words back out of the air as soon as she said them. Never let a man think you’re desperate. 

“I’d really like that,” he said all in one breath, “I do have to go home and shower.” 

“I could meet you there.” 

“It’s kind of out of your way,” he shrugged. “If you don’t mind losing the day, you could come with me.”

He didn’t seem to mind waiting while she showered and changed. When she emerged, he was sitting in front of the snakes, watching them with interest. 

“They don’t move much, huh?” 

“Not really,” she agreed, kneeling down next to him. “But I like to imagine they spend a lot of time thinking.” 

“What do snakes think about?” 

“Natural philosophy,” she said a little slyly and was gratified when he laughed. 

He drove them, rolling down the windows instead of turning on the A/C and the soft summer morning rolled into the car. Her hair was back in braid, the escaped strands danced merrily around her face. 

His place wasn’t as far as she might’ve guessed. Probably only a fifteen minute drive to the studio. It was a brick duplex, both sets of stairs dotted copiously with plants. 

“My neighbor is a plant hoarder,” he explained, climbing upwards, keys retrieved from his gym bag. “We’ve got a little backyard, but it’s already over crowded so I let her start colonizing my steps too as long as she keeps them alive.” 

“That’s kind of you.” 

“It’s selfish, I get all the joy of greenery and none of the work.” 

She stepped into a hall and looked around in wonder. It was a lean living room, but it was crammed full of beautiful things. There was a crystal mobile just over the entryway that threw rainbows every which way. A curio cabinet full of small wooden sculptures, painted shells, ceramic dancers and geodes was just able to squeeze in next to the tv. The couch was enormous, taking up too much space, but also looking deliciously comfortable. It was heaped with quilts, knitted and crocheted blankets. Handmade pillows were stashed in each corner. 

“I’m a bit of a collector,” he said sheepishly. 

“I love it,” she said without having to feign even a little. “I always tried to collect things, but nothing stuck.” 

“I flit around,” he admitted. “Will you be okay knocking around down here for a bit?” 

At her nod, he went up the steep steps. She went on exploring the room, not daring to enter the kitchen though she was tempted. The walls were full of photos and paintings too. She studied them, occasionally finding a familiar face, including the opening day picture of Beauty’s Revenge with Brienne sitting on the steps smiling broadly, Uncle Tryion leaning on her shoulder and Pod beside them, frozen at the age Myrcella had first met him. 

There were strangers too, more of those then not. The paintings were all abstracts, fluid circles and spirals of color. At the other end of the room was a sliding glass door that must let out into the shared backyard. There was a stained glass piece mounted somehow to glass. It was less abstract, a flock of birds erupting from the water. 

There were books piled up on the table, the kind of coffee table art books that she’d long thought extinct. She sat down on the couch which was exactly as comfortable as it looked. There was one of black and white photography, proclaiming ‘Bodies in Motion’ with a local press imprint. She flipped through it and was startled to see him there, near the end. 

He was in the studio, she hadn’t been to the second floor much, but enough to recognize it. He was alone, dressed only in black tights. Instead of dancing, he was sitting in repose, eyes closed. One arm was extended up over his head, frozen in time mid-stretch. 

It made her curious about the other books. He wasn’t in most of them, but out of the ten on the table, she found him twice more. Once in a group shot on a beach, mid cartwheel. The other alone again, looking off frame, a close up of his profile. 

“Oh,” Pod looked chagrined when he found her pouring over them. “I guess it looks kind of self-centered.” 

“They’re beautiful,” she shook her head. 

“Daneel,” he explained, the name in small print across all three books. “We were together for a few years, a long time ago.” 

“She’s talented.” 

“Was,” he sighed. “We’d already been broken up for awhile when she got sick. She was older than me, but not so much other than you’d expect...anyway. I visited her a lot at the end. I like to keep the books around.” 

“I would too,” she closed the last one and set it gently back down. 

“The fair isn’t far,” he rocked back on his heels a little, “want to walk?” 

The smell of kettle corn and sausages scented the air long before they saw the first white tents. There were sellers of all kinds, mostly with handmade crafts though here and there someone with a clipboard asked them if they needed solar power or to switch banks. 

“We can look around more once I do lunch duty, or you can do a lap on your own?” he offered. 

“I can wait,” she assured him. 

The stained glass was apparent from several booths away, a piece similar to the one Pod had on his back door gleaming towards the front. Pod’s friend was tall and thin with deep skin and a deeper voice. 

“Tondy, this is Myrcella,” Pod introduced them. Tondy’s hand encompassed hers, 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said with significantly more sincerity than she’d been expecting. 

“It’s nice to meet you too,” she smiled back. “Sorry to tag along unannounced.” 

“Unannounced,” Tondy repeated, a twitch of a smile. “Don’t worry, Prince Charming already texted me that he’d have company. And trust me, I was all for it. I’ll see you in an hour.” 

“Enjoy your lunch!” she said to his retreating back. “He seems nice.” 

“Uh huh,” Pod was frowning, “ignore him if he’s weird. I guess I haven’t dated much in awhile.” 

“Why not?” 

They sat down in the provided folding chairs, an oscillating fan providing some relief to the heat pressing in. 

“Got busy mostly,” he glanced at her. “And I guess I lost the heart for it. After Daneel, there was Quill for a long time. And that just sort of sputtered out. I went on a few dates here and there, but the school was taking off more. I gave my time to that instead.” 

“Yeah,” she watched the people passing by, some laden with bags or children. “I can understand that. Did...is this for fun then?” 

“I’m having fun, I hope you are too,” he said quietly. “But...not just for fun. Not for me. I know you just lost your mother and with Trystane...it’s probably too much. I don’t mind if you-” 

“I want to take it seriously,” she cut him off. “Trystane...we’ve been all but over for a long time. There’s no rebound, not really.” 

“Oh good,” he exhaled. “I really like you, ‘Cella.” 

“I really like you too.” 

And she was half-worried that would ruin it. That it was all too much seriousness, but the confession seemed to defuse some lingering tension. After that, he was loose limbed and making her laugh with a story about him trying to figure out how to use Tondy’s cash register for the first time years ago before it was a convenient app. Which reminded her of her brief days of working at a boutique during college for the store discount and they were off trading customer stories. 

Tondy came back, thanking them both with a knowing smile before waving them away. They walked the entire length of the fair and she eventually bought a wide brimmed straw hat with a dark blue ribbon wrapped around it to keep the sun off her face. He picked up a chunky silver ring with a lopsided bit of jade slashed across it.

They ate an early dinner at a restaurant that had flung open it’s front windows to the merriment. Without really discussing it, they walked back to his house and she stayed the night. 

“I’ve got to go to work today,” she groaned into his shoulder in the morning. 

“Me too,” he said regretfully. “My last class doesn’t end until eight.” 

“I eat dinner late most of the time...” 

He came to her apartment with a change of clothes. And then owed her dinner, naturally, and cooked for her in his cramped kitchen the next night, an unfussy but generous meal. It turned out that it wasn’t that long of a drive to her office from his place. 

_You’re coming to dinner this Sunday?_ Tom’s text slid across her screen on Saturday, halfway through a long lie in. 

She couldn’t actually put if off anymore, _sure_. 

“I’m going to Uncle Jaime’s for dinner tomorrow night,” she muttered in warning. 

“I was sort of surprised you didn’t go last week,” Pod yawned and drew her in closer. 

“I could come by after,” she said, her heart still skipping a beat. Waiting for it to be too much. Too smothering. Too desperate. Just too much fucking Lannister beating against a normal person. 

“I’d like that,” he nuzzled into her neck. 

It wasn’t until she was opening the door to the house that the guilt and worry rushed in. She should’ve been here. Should’ve been doing something with all the grief she’d turned her back on. She could hear Brienne in the living room, Uncle Jaime saying something low back and Tom muttering. 

“Hey,” Theon was in the kitchen, apparently not doing anything except hiding judging by how he was clutching a glass. 

“Are they fighting?” 

“Nah,” he gave her a crooked grin. “I had a rough brain day.” 

She listened to the hushed voices and went and leaned on the counter next to him. 

“Want to hear some juicy gossip?” 

“Yes,” he said fervently. 

“You know the Tanzys?” 

“Oh, sure uh used to have a big land holding in the North, right? But they lost it to some other family.” 

“Their oldest daughter tricked their father out of giving what’s left of it to the oldest brother,” it was an open secret, nothing that had been confided in her especially, but she knew Theon would appreciate it anyway. “And now they’re in this big lawsuit, right? So the daughter seduced the brother’s lawyer.” 

“Stone cold,” Theon whistled appreciatively. “So now she’s going to get it all?” 

“Nah, it’ll be tied up in litigation for years. Both sides are terrible, but it is an interesting mess.” 

“Cella!” Tom turned the corner, “Can you please come tell Uncle Jaime that no one buys warranties on electronics anymore!” 

“It’s just practical!” Uncle Jaime yelled from the other room.”Things break!” 

“It’s a scam!” Tom yelled back. Theon winced fractionally. Tom glanced at him and was at his side in a second, “Sorry.” 

“Shut up,” Theon rolled his eyes, but he did lean in Tom’s side. “I was getting the scope on old families drama, you’re interrupting.” 

Uncle Jaime and Brienne came in and they seemed..normal. Whatever had been tense between them no longer was. It was just Sunday dinner. They ate and talked and bickered a little. Tom and Theon left early as the strain showed in the grey pallor to Theon’s face. 

“Are you doing alright?” Uncle Jaime asked her as she made to leave too.

“I’m okay,” she hugged him, trying not to note that he’d lost a little weight. “Love you.” 

“Love you too, Merry-mine.” 

She drove to Pod’s house. He’d left the front door open for her. It was so easy to take off her shoes and line them up next to his. To crawl in under his arm on the couch. 

“How was dinner?” 

“Good,” she laid her head on his shoulder. “What are we watching?” 

The string went on unbroken. By week four, their things began to migrate. Changes of clothes tucked in empty corners of drawers, detritus of someone else’s life left on bedside tables and in the fridge. 

“It’s moving too fast, right?” she’d asked Sansa. She’d driven down south to meet her in the sticky-floored diner and then a long walk through the small town. She hadn’t told anyone else yet about Pod, had almost not told Sansa either. 

“Too fast for who?” Sansa shrugged. “Who gets to set the speed?” 

“Mother...” the thought had rattled around, unspoken and now it spilled out, prickeled and pickled with a child’s anger. “There were so many men and people said so many horrible things about it.” 

“She did a lot of horrible things, Cella, but sharing her bed with who she wanted when she wanted....no one should be allowed to judge that.” 

“Even...” the specter of her birth that lingered over everything like a dark cloud. 

“I don’t understand it. I don’t...” Sansa stared at some point over Myrcella’s shoulder. “But I’m glad it’s not the crime that put her away. And not just for your and Tom’s sake.” 

“Me too,” she thought about the lonely bride, clutching flowers she probably didn’t even like. “I don’t think she’d approve of Pod.” 

“No, probably not,” Sansa’s shadow smile slid over her lips. “But I see that as an endorsement. I don’t know him well, but he sounds like a dream.” 

He wasn’t a dream. He left half filled water glasses everywhere and worked strange hours. He had a lot of friends, many of whom he had dated at some time or another and she wasn’t immune to jealousy. Sometimes, he was too submissive, yesing her to death when she wanted him to make a choice. 

But he was so kind and interesting and funny. He had dozens of half-learned skills that she kept discovering because he wasn’t the bragging type. They liked the same kinds of tv shows, including the terrible reality shows that Trystane used to gently tease her about. 

The few nights they were apart by circumstance, she didn’t relish the alone time. Instead she felt itchy, staying up too late to distract herself from going to sleep without him. After one such night, they had reunited in her apartment. They were bundled together on the couch. Flea had wound himself around Pod’s upper arm. 

“Traitor,” she’d laughed. “You’re secretly a snake charmer too.” 

“I used to be terrified of them, actually,” he admitted.

“Oh! You should’ve told me, I wouldn’t have-” 

“No! No. It was when I was younger.” 

“How’d you get over it?” 

“Oh you know,” he laughed, a little nervously, “this teenage girl had one that I had to pet sit.” 

“Oh no,” she groaned. “When we were away?” 

“Mhm, it was mostly the cats, but Brienne asked me to check in on Slithers too.” 

“You really didn’t have to,” she groaned. “Slithers was fine for days without people.” 

“Nah, it was good for me. And now I can hang with this guy.” 

“Do you think it’s weird?” she asked. “How long we’ve known each other?” 

“I mean, we knew of each other,” he said gently. “I don’t really think I even noticed you much back then...that sounds mean.” 

“No, that’s actually a relief,” she assured him. “I didn’t notice you either. I’m sort of asking for a reason. I just think..it’s been about eight weeks. And I’d like to just...you know. Tell my family.” 

“You should,” he said after a beat of hesitation. 

“You don’t want me too.” 

“No! No...I want you too. Just probably going to be a little awkward for awhile.” 

“You should just come to dinner with me on Sunday,” she put on a brave smile. “I mean. If you want. I’ll tell them beforehand, but maybe if you’re just there then....it’ll work out.”

A commercial was playing, a cheery endorsement for detergent chirping though the space. 

“I used to hope I’d get invited,” he spoke slowly. “I...Brienne was very kind. And I thought that I’d like that. To be a part of it. But it wasn’t really like that. Was never appropriate.” 

“Fuck approriate.” 

They both stopped, taking in the words.

“I mean it,” she followed up less vehemently, “appropriate never did anyone in my family any good. I’m happy to be the one to invite you, but you should’ve been there when you wanted to be back then too.” 

She can ride that wave of righteous indignation right into talking to Tom. He came over with a stack of videos, probably expecting a regular sibling hang. Theon apparently opting out with unusual sensitivity. 

“Can I chuck m and ms in the popcorn?” he asked her, already tossing the bag in the microwave. 

“I’m dating someone new,” she leaned against the island. 

“Uh, okay? Is that a no on the m and ms then?” 

“It’s a yes, and it’s Pod.” 

“Uh huh,” he ripped open the bag of candy, two brightly colored shells spiraling out. “It’s Pod, what?” 

“I’m dating Pod.” 

“Pod,” he repeated, staring at her. 

“Yes.” 

“...I...really?” 

“Really. Why? Is it that hard to believe?” 

“Kind of! He used to babysit me when you had soccer practice, it’s a little weird!” his voice rose an octave. “And he dated Aunt Margaery!” 

She frowned, a tickle at the back of her mind about that, “So?” 

“So...it’s all...mixed up and whatever,” Tom rescued the escaped m and ms, crunching them between his teeth. “And he’s like ten years older than you.” 

“Seven,” she corrected. “He’s the same age as Theon.” 

“I-” he clacked his teeth shut. “Fuck. Do we both have Daddy issues?” 

“Let’s never say those words to each other ever again.”

“Agreed.”

They sat in a rotten silence for a long minute. 

“He is kind of hot,” Tom offered eventually, “Not really my type, but I can see the appeal.” 

So that was alright then. Weird, but alright.

And then there was Brienne and Uncle Jaime. She got them on speaker phone after their morning run, both of their breath still coming in a little faster and harsher. 

“Can I bring someone to Sunday dinner?” 

“Of course,” Brienne sounded distracted and then there was harshly whispered ‘stop that’ and Uncle Jaime was laughing. 

“Okay, great. Because Pod and I have been seeing each other and it’s pretty serious.” 

The laughter chopped off into a befuddled, “Whosit in the what now?” 

“Pod is my boyfriend.” 

Brienne huffed, “Oh, he was doing a lot of suspicious smiling lately. And looking guilty. I assumed he’d been planning another marketing push behind my back again.” 

“Pod is not a boyfriend,” Uncle Jaime said with certainty. “He’s some kind of household fairy creature like a brownie or something.” 

“He’s my boyfriend,” she said firmly. “Understood?” 

“...yes?” Uncle Jaime ventured. “I had no idea that that was on the table. But...he’s older than you isn’t he?” 

“If either of you said anything to Tom about Theon’s age, then you can say something to me now about it.” 

Silence. Nice. 

“So we’ll be coming to Sunday dinner,” she said firmly. “Please try not to be super weird.” 

“We’ve been friends since before he could grow a beard,” Brienne sounded amused, not displeased so Myrcella figured she could let out a breath there. “I think I can manage to speak to him civilly.” 

“I haven’t spoken to anyone civilly in years,” Uncle Jaime dismissed. “He’d think it was weird if I did.” 

“Great, love you both. See you on Sunday.” 

She had expected to be nervous, but she barely got a chance as Podrick had a complete breakdown before her eyes. He changed clothes twice and kept re-doing his hair. 

“You know them,” she said, watching him from the end of his bed. “This isn’t a test or anything.” 

“I know, I know,” he sat down heavily beside her. “But Brienne’s always kind of a closed book and Jaime has probably said fifteen words to me altogether. Tom probably thinks I’m a perv.” 

“Tom has literally no ground to stand on, please ignore him. Or just start telling him about how great physical activity is until he tries to burrow through the ground. Also don’t let him talk you into an animal. He’s got a hard sales pitch. Do not adopt a cat because you think it’ll ingratiate you. It’s just a way for him to start funneling cats into your house.” 

“I like cats,” he said weakly. 

“For one night, you do not like cats. You are, in fact, allergic.” 

“Okay,” he laughed which had been her goal. 

He was tense again by the time they arrived. 

Theon and Tom were sitting on the front steps, leaning against each other. 

“I hear there’s furniture inside,” she walked towards them, half-tugging Pod along with her. 

“It’s nice out here,” Tom smiled up at her. “Hey, Pod.”

“Hi, Tom,” he said subdued. “Hey, Theon.” 

Theon wordlessly held his fist up. Bemused, Pod tapped it with his own. 

“Nice to have someone else here that wasn’t born into it,” Theon grinned, a little feral around the edges. 

“Uh, yeah,” Pod blinked. 

“Pizza or chicken?” Myrcella asked instead of letting that play out. 

“Thai.” 

“Oh, is that why we’re outside?” She glanced at Pod. “Brienne and Uncle Jaime have different favorite Thai places. Sometimes they arm wrestle over it.” 

“She and Tyrion have that with hamburgers, but I think they just have a weird score system,” he nodded, clearly already relaxing. 

“Foods on it’s way!” Uncle Jaime called from inside the house. “Stop loitering on my steps, you hooligans!” 

Tom got up and offered his hands to Theon, pulling him to his feet. As a unit they went inside. Brienne was standing by the door, ushering them inside like they were still children who had been in the cold too long. 

When Pod came in last, she put a hand on his shoulder, “I’m glad you could come.” 

“Me too,” he said softly. 

The knot in Myrcella’s stomach unravelled. It was fine. Even though Uncle Jaime kept staring over dinner at Pod. Everyone else acted as normally as they ever did. Theon got Brienne going about some point about metulluagy in middle period swords which took over much of dinner conversation. The food was good (Myrcella liked both places the same and suspected at this point so did Brienne and Uncle Jaime) and Pod wound up talking to Tom about fundraising. 

It was only when she was nearly at the door that she realized Uncle Jaime had snagged up Pod and they were talking quietly over the sink. She started to go over to them and Brienne interceded, 

“Walk with me?” 

“...sure.” 

It wasn’t full dark yet, the last traces of sunset illuminating the pebbled beach. Myrcella walked carefully, avoiding the waves while Brienne let them lap over her feet, apparently oblivious to the chill. 

“We were worried about you,” she finally said. “I told Jaime you needed your space. Was I right?” 

“Yes,” she felt a flush of embarrasment come over her. “And I’ve been coming over and everything.” 

“You’ve been distant,” it wasn’t an accusation which was almost worst. 

“I thought you guys were fighting and I just...didn’t want to deal with it, honestly.” 

“Jaime and I?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Not fighting,” Brienne sighed, stretching upwards. She was titanic like this, larger than life in her element. “Jaime just had to work through some things. He never counted on dealing with her death. I think he imagined that she would just go on forever or that they would die at the same moment.” 

“Drama king,” she muttered and Brienne stifled a snort. 

“Little bit,” she allowed. “But I think it’s hard for him to imagine a world without her in it. And he knew that I was...well.” 

“Relieved,” Myrcella filled in. 

“That sounds harsh, but I guess the truth does sometimes,” she expelled a breath. “I think in the back of my head I had this fear that she would get out and she would just take it all back. Jaime. You and Tom. This life that belonged to her.” 

“You weren’t renting it from her,” she said firmly. 

“I know,” Brienne leaned down and picked up a rock, casually tossing it so it skipped through the waves. “But feelings aren’t rational. For any of us.” 

“No,” she knotted her hands together. “I’m sorry, if I misunderstood.” 

“Don’t be. It might’ve been a little of that too. We try not to let you guys see us argue,” she grimaced. “Maybe that was wrong, I don’t know. Seemed like you’d had enough of that.” 

“You bicker all the time.” 

“Sure, that’s just who we are. But the real ugly stuff... no. It’s private anyway. But in either case, it’s not for you to worry about. You’ve got your own life, Cella. You don’t have to manage ours, I promise we’re fine.” 

“I don’t want to manage it,” she lied. 

“Pod seems happy,” the tactical subject change let air back into Myrcella’s lungs. 

“So am I. I really like him, Bri.” 

“That’s good,” Brienne’s hand was warm and solid against her shoulder. “That’s very good.” 

When they got back to the house, Uncle Jaime was pointing to a picture on the mantle and Pod was grinning. 

“Ok, whatever this is has to stop immediately,” she decided. Because that was definitely a photo of her in her single foray into acting. 

“Does it?” Pod turned to face her and the rest of it melted away. He held a hand out to her. She took it and bore the embarrassment of Uncle Jaime’s bragging. 

And when they did finally escape for good, bundled up in the car and heading back to Pod’s place, he still had her hand in his. She started to ask what Uncle Jaime had said to him, but then lapsed back into silence. 

He’d tell her if she needed to know. 

It grew colder that week. Winter’s first treacherous fingers prying at the edges of the fall. Myrcella landed a new client. They were new money, not an old family, and that was the best kind. She worked long hours and waited for Pod to grow annoyed or demanding. 

Instead, he brought her lunch on his day off and ate with her at her desk. He fell asleep in her bed, the snakes all fed and her laundry neatly folded in it’s basket to be put away. She waited for things to break, but they only bent and gently sprung back when the worst of it was over. 

She got a reminder email about her annual appointment and stared at it for a long time. 

“I have to tell you something,” she sat down beside him on the couch. The tv was on, but he muted it immediately. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” she said too quickly then sighed. “I mean, nothing new. But it’s important.” 

“Okay,” he turned to face her. “What is it?” 

“I have a congenital heart defect,” that sounded clinical. Calm. Removed. “It probably won’t kill me, but there’s a possibility that it might.” 

“Oh,” he took her hand. “I’m sorry. How long have you known about it?” 

“Almost my whole life. They can happen to anyone, but there’s a higher indice with consanguity.” 

“Thank you for telling me,” he matched her calm with his own. As it really was no big deal. 

“I’ve got a check up in a few days. I...would you come with me?” 

“Of course,” he rubbed his thumb over the top of her hand. “When is it?” 

She didn’t tell him that she’d never told Trystane. That no one had come with her to the cardiologist since she was sixteen and could drive herself. As he sat beside her and listened to the doctor explain the condition and it’s prognosis, she wondered why. Why hadn’t she let Uncle Jaime take her here? He’d only listen and then take her out for whatever fancy lunch she wanted. Or just Brienne if she couldn’t deal with the unspoken guilt and regret between them over it. Brienne was good with medical stuff, practical and ruthless. It would’ve been no big deal. 

And why not Trystane? He would’ve been just as helpful as Pod, just as supportive. What was wrong with her that she had denied herself something so simple and human as wanting comfort? 

She trailed back out into the waiting room in daze. 

“You okay?” Pod put his arm around his shoulders. 

“No,” she could feel the tears coming. “Can we go home?” 

He took her back to his place and that seemed more right than she could say.

“Why am I like this?” she stared down her knees as he drove, the tears coming slow and silent down her face. 

“Like what?” he asked, rightly confused considering. 

“I don’t let anyone see me. Help me. And you just came along like it’s not big deal that I might die young because my parents were....and is it not a big deal?” 

“Of course it’s a big deal,” he frowned. “But it’s not your fault. No one asks to be born and I’m really glad that you were. And for the other stuff...it’s hard to ask people for help. It’s not just you. I’ve got tissues in the glove box.”

She took them out and blew her nose, “Thanks.” 

“You want to know something? That I never told Brienne or Tyrion? Or even Margaery though maybe she guessed.” 

“Yeah?” she wiped turned to him. His eyes were on the road, his mouth tense. 

“I was homeless when I started working at the bar,” he swallowed hard. “I had this delivery gig, but it wasn’t really enough to support myself on. I bounced around a lot. Shelters and motels and stuff. It wasn’t for long, just a few months. When they hired me, it changed everything.” 

“Pod,” she said softly. 

“It was a long time ago,” he glanced at her, managed something like a smile. “I never told them though. Never asked for money in advance or if someone had empty room somewhere until I got on my feet. For years, I was so proud of that.” 

“But not anymore?” 

“No,” he sighed. “I did what I thought was the right thing. But if I could, I’d go back and tell myself if was okay. That Tyrion had more money then he knew what to do with and a softer heart that he’d admit to.” 

“I know that feeling,” it felt a little silly now in the wake of him admitting to that. 

“But you asked me to come with you, right? So. You know what that is? Growth,” he teased gently. 

She laughed, a little water-logged. 

By the time the first snow came, Myrcella and her snakes had a new address. She didn’t have a lot of regrets leaving behind the apartment. It had been good to her when she need it, but it didn’t hold much sentiment in the end. It wasn’t like Pod’s color saturated collections. With all of their stuff packed in, his place seemed smaller, but it was cozy and warm as the snow piled up outside. 

“I’ll be home around eight,” Pod leaned down to kiss her. He had an a truly enormous puffy jacket paired with black leggings. 

“You look like a mascot for marshmallows,” she laughed and cupped his cheek, making the kiss last a little longer. 

“Haha,” he pulled back, reluctantly, “stop looking so sweet and comfortable, now I don’t want to leave.” 

“Don’t disappoint your fans,” she tsked. 

“I’m teaching seniors salsa,” he blinked. 

“I know what I said. Those ladies think your the best thing going.” 

“Jealous?” 

“Very.” 

That got her another kiss, but then he really was leaving and she was alone with her book. It was only mid-afternoon and it wasn’t a very good book. The silence got to her and eventually, she decided to go grocery shopping. They always needed odds and ends. The drive there was uneventful. She even got a good parking space and oranges were on sale. 

It was on the way back when she slowed for a stop sign that an enormous SUV rear-ended her. She jolted forward, the screech of the impact sending her heart into erratic flutters. She pressed a hand to her ribs, taking deep breaths. Not today. Not today. 

“Are you okay?” someone ran to her door, “Miss?” 

“I’m okay,” she managed and got the door open. She stood wobbly with shocked. 

The other driver was standing dazed outside his car. She ignored him and stood back to survey the damage. The entire trunk was crumpled up, her oranges spilled loose inside. 

“Shit,” she said quietly. 

“I’ve called the cops,” the bystander who’d come to her door assured her. “I saw the whole thing, he was speeding like a madman.” 

“Thanks.” 

“You should call someone, they’re going to have to tow you.” 

“Right. Of course.” 

She had to go back into her car to get her purse. The engine was still running and she turned it quickly off. She got her phone into her hand. If she called him, Pod would cancel his classes and come get her. 

But deep down, in that moment, she didn’t want Pod or Tom or one of her college friends. She hit the top contact on her phone. 

“Mercy?” he picked up. “Is everything okay?” 

“No,” she stared down at her shoes. “I mean, physically I’m fine, but I got into an accident and I’m a little shaken up. Can you come get me?” 

“I’ll be there as fast as I can. Give me the address.” 

The cops arrived a few minutes later, quickly jotting down statements and taking everyone’s information. They promised her a copy of the report. The tow truck was on their heels, called by her overpriced insurance. 

And just a minute after that, Uncle Jaime arrived. He stepped out of his car, looking over the wreck with an ureadable expression before spotting her and walking briskly to her. 

“Are you okay? Are you sure?” 

“The air bag didn’t even go off,” she assured him as she was engulfed in a hug. He must’ve been outside when she called, the damp ocean air clung to his jacket muddled with the same cologne he had worn her entire life. “I’m sorry to interrupt whatever you were doing.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he didn’t let her go, pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “I’m just glad you’re all right. And we’re going to sue that guy back to the stone age.” 

“Insurance will handle it,” some deep part of her relaxed. 

“Want to come hang out at the house? Have some dinner?” 

“The tow truck is taking mine, so that’d be great.” 

The lexus was new. They were always new, but they also were always the same gunmetal grey with black leather interior. Two water bottles were nestled in the cupholders, and Brienne’s favorite sunscreen was in the door side pocket of the passenger seat. She sank into the plush comfort with a sigh. 

“Could probably get that thing marked down as totaled,” he speculated as he got behind the wheel. The car started nearly silently, “Get something new.” 

“Maybe. I like my car though.” 

“As long as it’s still safe to drive.” 

They drove through the streets of downtown King’s Landing. It was dark already, the thick suddenenss of a winter night. She watched shops and bars and restaurants slide by, melding together. 

“Can I ask you something? Something personal?” 

“You can always ask,” Uncle Jaime adjusted the heater so it blew more towards her. 

“What did you love about Mom?” 

She couldn’t see his face, but his silence was loud. Eventually he cleared his throat, “What do you mean? I mean, what do you want to know?” 

“You must’ve...she must’ve been something special, right? And I was thinking about it for awhile now. That it wasn’t just a situation that you fell into or something. You loved each other, didn’t you?” 

“Too much,” he agreed, soft and pained. 

“So why? I mean was it just because of being there or...” 

“She was so smart,” he started abruptly. “You have no idea how because by the time you could know her, it was bogged down by the world, but she had an amazing memory. Learned things the first time and never forgot them. She could put things to words in a way I never could. Sometimes when I was in boarding school, I’d write her about my assignments and she’d send me back papers to recopy that were better work than anyone could believe I could do. You know she was beautiful, but to me...it was like she was lit from the inside. Bright when the whole world was dark. I used to brush her hair for her all the time, all that gold. 

“And we had a lot of fun together.” 

“You did?” 

“It wasn’t all melodrama,” he laughed, humorlessly. “We went to these stiff parties and tried to make each other laugh when we were meant to be quiet. We’d sneak around the Rock at night and poke into closed off rooms or make each other treats in the kitchen. Go swimming in the pool in the moonlight. She was my other half. My better half, I used to think.” 

“Not anymore?” 

“I’ll love your mother until I die,” he turned, leaving behind the city for the surrounding suburbs. “But we hadn’t been part of the same whole in a long time.” 

“Thanks for telling me,” she rubbed her palms against her knees. “I’m sorry if I was mean about her at the funeral.” 

“It was your truth. Probably a closer one to whatever the real truth is than mine. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

She nodded and watched the lines of the road until they blurred. Vaguely, she was aware that she was dozing. Her eyes were heavy and it had become a very long day. It hardly mattered if she slept. She trusted him to get her safely home.


End file.
